


As Long as the Wheels are Turning

by MarshmallowRabbit



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst and Humor, Aziraphale has a tendency to ramble, Character Development, Comfort/Angst, Crowley really sucks at making friends, Developing Friendships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fictional Religion & Theology, Friendship, Humor, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Possessive Crowley, Post-Canon, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-10-19 15:15:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 74,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20659307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarshmallowRabbit/pseuds/MarshmallowRabbit
Summary: It's a dangerous thing for an angel like Aziraphale to have an idea; it's only more so when the future of the human race may hang in the balance. The wayward angel wants to build a force to stand against Heaven and Hell alike – but will it still be worth the risk if he loses a dear friend in the process?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. of Good Omens is the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.
> 
> Scene break reference:
> 
> Short time skip:
> 
> «»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»
> 
> Long time skip:  
·◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊·

In the beginning, there had been an angel, a demon, a couple people, a flaming sword, and an apple. Fast forward a bit – you'll find an angel, a demon, a few more people, a flaming sword, and an apple. Although, the sword and the apple look a little different, this time around.

**«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»**

"We're closed!"

Aziraphale tutted as he made his way down the well worn stairs from the second floor balcony of the bookshop. He could have sworn that the bolt had been locked when he closed up a few hours prior, but it wasn't unusual for him to overlook the task when other matters such as recalling his place in the books he was alphabetizing, or the flavor of tea he should pair with his biscuits, came to mind. The answer to both affairs being the letter G, and an earl grey that now sat neglected in the small reading nook near the window.

"I'm terribly sorry," Aziraphale said, plastering the false smile on his face he had perfected over the centuries, "but it's Tuesday, you see, and on Tuesdays the shop closes right around –"

Aziraphale stepped from behind a bookshelf, the rest of his sentence dying on his lips as he took in the appearance of the visitor. For half a second, Aziraphale had to seriously contemplate what year it was.

The woman appeared to be in her mid to late thirties, and by the alarmed look on her face, she seemed just as startled as Aziraphale. Although, it was probably for entirely different reasons other than the fact that the visitor looked as if she had stepped right out of a VHS copy of The Breakfast Club.

Permed brown hair was tied halfway up with a sequined purple scrunchie, the woman's green eyes accented with a startling splash of electric blue glitter that would probably blind anyone unfortunate enough to be regarding her in full daylight. A confused frown settled on Aziraphale's face as his eyes drifted downward. The yellow pants with a black zig-zag pattern the woman sported seemed to be very busy clashing in a horrendous fashion with a purple sweater that had literal pom-poms strung to the material. If he had to hazard a guess of his visitor's profession, he would say 'clown.' This was in a sincere fashion, of course. Aziraphale rather liked clowns.

The woman's odd appearance, however, was quickly pushed aside in Aziraphale's mind as another sense took president. It could not be smelled, or heard, or touched, but he felt it wash over him like an ice cold bucket of water had been dropped on his head.

Fear and panic coursed through the veins of the angel's corporal form. An indicator for how well he was doing hiding these emotions was reflected in the fact that the visitor took a tentative step back. The phrase, 'they're more scared of you than you are of them' came to mind, but it did just as little to help Aziraphale want to keep the woman around as it did spiders (bless their poor, repulsive little hearts).

"I … I don't know what you want," Aziraphale stuttered, fighting for composure. "But I wish to be left alone. I don't want _any_ trouble, you see. So ... please, I implore you, leave this establishment immediately."

The woman promptly whipped about, tight curls bouncing as if she were being tugged away by an unseen force. A relieved sound escaped Aziraphale as he nervously fidgeted with the cuff of his button-up shirt.

The woven center rug, varying stacks of books, and small desk toward the front of the shop were passed by in a blur as the woman's hand curled around the doorknob. Aziraphale strained his ears as the genial hum of London billowed in, but the woman didn't make a sound as she stepped through the threshold. The soft tinkling of the bell above the door heralded her departure, and there was a glimpse of forlorn green eyes through the clouded glass before she was swallowed up by the crowd.

The tugging on his sleeve intensified as Aziraphale dithered, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"Don't do it," he whispered. The angel sighed, shaking his head. His focus landed on a stack of books concerning culinary prophecies he had been organizing earlier in the day. The look behind his blue eyes hardened as if he were sending a warning to a rather unruly child, and not a stack of paper, glue, and leather.

"Don't do it. Don't do it. Don't do it!"

The command worked rather well for the books, but not so much for the angel.

The door to Aziraphale's bookshop swung wide as the ethereal being in question appeared in a frazzled blur. He made his way through the crowd, a speck of cream and white among the usual grey and black trench coats fashionable during late spring. His target, however, stood out like a sore thumb, and was more than easy enough to spot.

"Stop! Please!" Aziraphale shouted. His bow tie had fallen askew, and he was certain that the hem of his pants would need a (literal) miracle in order to save them from the dredge of rainwater and motor oil that had splashed onto the sidewalk. But the woman in question had indeed come to a stop, pink lips opening in an 'o' as she turned to regard him in surprise.

"I, ah, uuuurgh," Aziraphale said, giving up on his greeting as he panted. The woman waited patiently, the crowd around them parting with a level of disinterest as if they were merely fixtures to the sidewalk like shrubs or a mailbox. After taking in a few good gulps of air (which was a bit like inhaling pea soup, considering the weather), Aziraphale did his best to put on a smile far more genuine than before.

"Was there … was there something you wanted to say?" than angel asked.

The woman's gaze left his face to dart over the busy street. Aziraphale caught something unpleasant flash behind her eyes (besides the gaudy eyeshadow) before her focus returned to him. When it did, however, the woman regarded him with a warm expression that left her nearly glowing. Aziraphale always felt a compulsory urge to return such things, however the smile tugging at his cheeks dissipated in an instant as the woman stepped forward to place a hand against his face. She lifted herself up onto her toes to place a kiss on his opposite cheek.

"Thank you."

With a final smile, the woman backed away before turning around once again. Aziraphale watched her, dumbfounded, as she joined the bustling crowd. It took him a moment of his eyes tracking the sequined scrunchie bobbing up and down, before all fourteen and a half of the angel's senses returned.

"WAIT!"

**«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»**

"Madeleine?"

The woman didn't answer, regarding Aziraphale as if he were placing a tray of severed heads onto the short table before her instead of rather innocent looking biscuits.

They had returned to the bookshop, where the owner had hastily cleared away the piles of books (losing his place alphabetizing by doing in so, as he would later discoverer with a worn sigh) in order to make room for the tray and accompanying teapot. His previous batch of tea had gone cold, but the newer addition of an electric kettle via Crowley – more out of irritation toward the angel's outdated nature than kindness – made quick work of a fresh pot.

Aziraphale settled himself into the seat opposite his companion. Although the clouded glass at their side obscured much of the view from the bustling scene below, a dim glow illuminated their quaint tea party. Aziraphale's sunny expression seemed to prompt the woman to attempt the same, but the effort only left her looking ill.

"I, well, uh," Aziraphale said, wondering where to begin. "I can't say we've met before, have we? I feel like I would remember you."

There was no way anyone could forget that color palette, even if they wanted to.

The woman shook her head. "No, Principality Aziraphale," she said. "We have not spoken before."

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. The gesture seemed to make the woman uncomfortable, so he quickly returned to his cheery expression. "Oh, no need for titles like that," he said pleasantly. "Just Aziraphale is fine, or Mr. Aziraphale, if you're so inclined."

The woman nodded in an almost mechanical manner. Aziraphale was studying her now as if she were a rather peculiar-looking creature at the zoo, and she raised her teacup to her lips more out of a desire for something to do, than a wish to consume tea. She did, however, appear surprised as she drew the cup away. "The tea is lovely," she said, her voice hardly a whisper.

"Isn't it?" Aziraphale said, puffing out his chest. "It's a special blend. I was first introduced to it while traveling through Italy some time ago. Oh dear, when was that? I _believe _it was a few centuries ago when I was staying with Giovanni's family in the country – lovely people. Odd place for him to set up shop as a cobbler, considering his skills, though. Oh, but his wife did love being able to keep chickens. Terribly messy things, as I'm sure you know, but she was able to trade the eggs for tea leaves. Oh, how I wish it were so easy nowadays!"

Aziraphale chuckled, amused. "I have to get it sourced special from a small Italian province, now. There are _planes _involved. The kind that land on the water, you see. Oh, what is that province called again? I think …"

A glazed look had fallen over his companion's eyes. Aziraphale cleared his throat, the woman snapping up to sit a little straighter.

"How rude of me," Aziraphale said, pushing away the irritation that _no one _seemed to ever appreciate the lengths he went to sourcing tea. "I don't believe I've even asked for your name."

The woman lowered her cup, porcelain clinking as it settled against the tray. She hesitated for a moment before answering. "It's Umbriel, if it pleases you, Just Principality Aziraphale. I am humbled that you would ask."

"Oh, uh, no," Aziraphale said, raising his hands. Umbriel regarded him like a puppy who seemed to sense that they were in trouble, but for no idea why.

"Ah! No!" Aziraphale exclaimed, growing more flustered from Umbriel's expression. "Your name is fine! Lovely name, Umbriel. It's just, _my _name, you see. You can call me ju– err, _only _Aziraphale. By itself, hmm? Not to say that I'm not _just, _you know, but, ah..."

It was clear by the almost dizzying look on Umbriel's face that Aziraphale was fighting a losing battle.

"Please call me Mr. Aziraphale."

"As you would will it, Mr. Aziraphale."

Aziraphale cleared his throat again, drumming his fingers over his knees. He found the woman's oddly formal way of speaking a jarring contrast to her outward appearance that would be more aligned with her telling him to gag on a spoon.

Despite doing everything in her power to emulate a rainbow, Umbriel seemed to dim as she once again lowered her eyes. It took Aziraphale a moment to decipher what had suddenly changed, when he realized there had been a trace amount of authority woven into his previous statement.

A feeling of pity floated to the surface as Aziraphale regarded the demure manner of his companion. She kept her gaze lowered, which was customary when conversing with someone of Aziraphale's rank. Aziraphale's friendly nature from before had likely helped her to temporarily forget this fact, but it now seemed to have come back in full force.

The feeling like someone had placed a hot iron on his chest coursed through the angel. He squared his shoulders, a defiant tone dredging his voice as he spoke.

"You can act how you like, when you're around me."

Umbriel's gaze snapped to his face. It was almost like her body had been released from a mold – shoulders relaxing, head tilting, and lips pulling back in trepidation as she studied him.

"And when I ask you questions," Aziraphale continued, "you can answer because _you _want to answer them, not because I'm making you, alright? I'm terribly sorry I didn't make that distinction earlier."

Umbriel didn't seem to know what to make of that statement. Neon blue flashed before his eyes as Aziraphale regarded her rapid blinking.

A side effect of her brain temporarily short circuiting caused Umbriel to transition into a default mode of what a person is expected to do whilst drinking tea. It wasn't _quite _right, however, which was apparent when she snatched four biscuits off the tray and stuffed them simultaneously into her mouth.

It was clear from the startled expression that the action had been a mistake, but Aziraphale pretended not to notice the wide eyes and muffled whine as he waited patiently for Umbriel to power through the dry biscuits. After some tense chewing, and a large swig of tea which helped to clear her air pipe, Umbriel's demeanor seemed far more relieved. Aziraphale felt that this was an appropriate time to give in to his ever inquisitive nature.

"I _am_ curious about something, actually," the angel said. "What, exactly, were you thanking me for earlier?"

His companion shrunk in her seat, but unlike before, there was a manner of squirming akin to a child being asked to tattle on a friend.

"They said that, well, the incident that happened almost five years ago was a test," Umbriel said, keeping her gaze averted. "That it was the Almighty testing us to see if we would be prepared for when the war to end all wars is really upon us."

Aziraphale studied Umbriel with a puzzled expression, wondering where in the world she could be going with this.

"You sided with the … opposition, during the test," Umbriel said, daring to glance at Aziraphale. Aziraphale flashed her an awkward smile, knowing that although the statement wasn't entirely true, it also wasn't completely false, either. Umbriel looked away, brunette curls partially obscuring her face as she dropped her head.

"I … I don't… I don't know if it was a test," she whispered.

For a few seconds, the two of them may as well have been carved from ice. As their table started to mirror the great thaw that happened at the end of the Ice Age (which was all rubbish, as it turned out), Aziraphale caught his jaw drifting open and sharply snapped it shut. The only sound other than the click of the angel's teeth was the ticking of the grandfather clock sitting near the base of the stairs. By that clock's time, it took Aziraphale exactly one minute and thirty–four seconds to come up with a follow up question that he hoped wouldn't discourage his companion from explaining further.

"Oh, well, uh ... and why is that?"

Well, no one said it was a particularly groundbreaking question.

Umbriel took a rattling breath. Out of pure habit, Aziraphale reached into his breast pocket and produced a handkerchief. He leaned slightly over the table and presented the small, tartan-patterned cut of sage green and brown cloth. Umbriel eyed it suspiciously, ultimately deciding that it would be bad manners not to accept the offering, and pinched the cloth between manicured nails that a carnivorous bird of prey would find most satisfactory.

"I was on the M25 roadway about five years ago when … when it happened," Umbriel said. She dabbed the corners of her eyes on the cloth. It twinkled with a merry blue as she pulled it away.

"The Almighty's children all stepped out of their cars," she continued, her voice wavering, "and they kept repeating, 'Hail the Great Beast, devourer of worlds!'"

Umbriel shook her head. She wiped her eyes more forcefully, streaks of black mascara now accompanying the eyeshadow taking over the pocket square.

"That wasn't them!" she said, meeting Aziraphale's gaze with a pleading expression. "I could feel it! Something had called to them; called out to the darkness in their hearts! And then … and then the fire. And they couldn't escape. They also … they also didn't want to."

Aziraphale had a sixth sense (well, probably more like 7th or 8th) when it came to the simple fact that someone needed a hug. He had found it to be generally quite helpful, except during the times that he was in the company of an old friend who would cross his fingers as if (ironically) warding off evil whenever Aziraphale threatened to take the action.

Aziraphale swiftly got to his feet and circled the table to put his arms around Umbriel's shoulders. She stiffened, trying to pull away.

"What? Why are you –?"

"It's alright," Aziraphale said, holding her gently. "It's alright."

Umbriel let out a small whine, her head resting on Aziraphale's shoulder. When the angel reached up to gently pat her hair, he was slightly startled to find he could feel waves of anguish and confusion rolling off Umbriel as she relived the memory. The very fascination that he was learning something _new _was the only thing keeping him from pulling away in shock.

"I couldn't … I couldn't help them!" Umbriel muttered into the camel-fur jacket. "They wouldn't leave the flames! I took a little boy by the hand and tried to drag him away, but he kept laughing as if he were having the time of his life. He wouldn't stop chanting those horrible words even as the heat became too much and he … and I …"

Umbriel pulled herself away to wipe her eyes again. The idea that Aziraphale's pocket square ever resembled anything beside a Jackson Pollock painting was quickly becoming a thing of the past.

"I … I used a miracle to keep myself from discorporating. And I just stayed there. And I watched. I watched as they all burned."

Aziraphale let out a long sigh. He observed Umbriel empathetically as she blew her nose into his pocket square.

"I'm sorry that happened to you," he said softly. "The humans got the benefit of coming back to life and forgetting the whole fiasco, but I suppose types like us weren't so lucky, hmm?"

Umbriel met his gaze, black splotches beneath her eyes and a red hue touching her slightly upturned nose. She sniffled before looking away in embarrassment.

"Your ha–handkerchief," Umbriel said, holding up the now rather pathetic looking cloth. "I'm s-sorry. I'll have it cleaned."

"Think nothing of it," Aziraphale said gently. "I probably have more than I need, really. I can fetch you a fresh one if you would like, my dear."

Aziraphale leaned back to avoid the flurry of curls threatening to blind him as Umbriel shook her head.

"No, please, I'm alright," she said. "I shouldn't have lost my composure in the first place."

Aziraphale regarded her with a pitying smile. He straitened and reached for the teapot. "Here, let me get your cup. And please help yourself to more biscuits; Heaven knows I certainly don't need them all."

Umbriel dutifully reached out to grab another madeleine. Aziraphale winced as he caught his mistake.

"Oh! Only have them if you want any, alright?" he added. Umbriel's hand faltered, but she still lifted the biscuit to her mouth to take a bite. Aziraphale sighed in relief. He returned to his seat and settled himself in as he waited for Umbriel to compose herself. Five madeleines (one at a time, this time around), three sips of tea, and one instance of a pocket mirror being produced from a puffball-like purse seem to do just that.

Umbriel took a deep breath before finally meeting Aziraphale's gaze. She smiled, and Aziraphale noted the same glowing expression she had given him out in the street.

"It wasn't a test back then, was it?" Umbriel said. The question appeared to be rhetorical as Umbriel continued to speak over Aziraphale's stuttering.

"It was real. It was the real war to end all wars. And you stopped it. You saved them; you saved the Almighty's children from being completely obliterated, didn't you?"

"Oh, well, um," Aziraphale said, caught off guard by the sudden shift in Umbriel's demeanor. "I, well, I didn't do it all alone. And, well…"

Aziraphale trailed off. His brows furrowed together as his expression grew pensive.

"But … why are you _happy_?" he asked. "Judgement Day is a day that _most _angels view as being one of great celebration. Why would you thank me for stopping it?"

The panicked look returned behind Umbriel's eyes, and Aziraphale feared that she might up and disappear then and there. But as soon as Umbriel's fleeting gaze landed on the window, her expression softened. She gazed down at the clouded blotches making up the people milling below like a new parent regarding their child from the window of a hospital nursery.

"Watching over the Almighty's children has been my job since the moment I came into existence," Umbriel said matter-of-factly. "The idea of no longer being able to look after them and watch them grow only brings me pain."

Aziraphale clasped his hands in his lap, a slight twitch to his lip being the only thing to reveal the thoughts churning beneath the surface. Umbriel kept her attention on the window, a dreamy look to her eyes as she ignored Aziraphale entirely.

"I believe our tea has gone cold," Aziraphale said, reaching for the pot. "How about I go refresh it, hmm? Please help yourself to some more biscuits. If you want – only then – yes."

Aziraphale didn't wait for any confirmation before turning about and descending the stairs. He hooked a left, passing the grandfather clock and mixed rows of organized and disorganized books (alphabetically, of course) before placing the teapot down on a small shelf. He picked up the receiver of the antique phone hanging from the wall, and dialed the number he knew by heart. It was practically the only one he ever called, most days, so he was able to enter the number almost subconsciously while his mind whirled.

After a few rings (too many, by Aziraphale's standards), there was a click on the other end of the line, followed by a relaxed drawl sounding like it came from someone who found the act of answering the phone far too blasé.

"Yeah?"

"It's me," Aziraphale said, cupping his hand over the microphone as he lowered his volume.

"Who else would it be?" the voice said in contempt. Aziraphale ignored the comment as he plowed on.

"I have a Guardian here."

"A wah?" the voice said. "Did you say a Guardian?"

"Yes," Aziraphale said softly. "And … and she's different. I want you to come down here."

"For a Guardian?" the voice said, accenting the question with a grunt indicating a good stretch. "Are those things even capable of coherent speech?"

"They're not imbeciles, Crowley. They're simply lower than us– err, _me– _on the hierarchy."

"I thought they were like, I dunno, jellyfish or somethin'. Just floatin' around keeping humans from being late for work and helpin' 'em get their food out of the microwave when it's _just so."_

"Don't be patronizing," Aziraphale warned. "She needs to like you."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes at the insulted scoff from the other end of the line.

"And why, might I ask, should I give two shits about what a glorified tree topper thinks of me?"

"Because," Aziraphale said, his gaze drifting upward. "I have an idea."

**«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»**

Crowley parked the dark colored Bentley directly on the busy street corner in front of Aziraphale's bookshop. It was quite illegal for him to do so, and it always caused a great level of irritation for fellow motorists who now how to account for the rather large blind spot that could result in a head–on collision with oncoming traffic, if they didn't cautiously squeeze themselves through. Despite numerous complaints, for some reason the parking violation always seemed to be overlooked by police and parking enforcement officers alike; said officers forgetting about the problem entirely the second their eyes left the car. And so Crowley frequently succeeded in making the inner–city London commute that much more intolerable, while simultaneously ensuring that his own parking arrangement was never an issue – a win–win, in his book.

Aziraphale's head swiveled as the tinkling bell heralded his old friend's arrival. He watched Crowley with an expectant smile as the demon sauntered toward him, hands stuffed deep within the pockets of a familiar tailored black suit jacket. Like any time the demon entered the bookshop, the temperature rose by a few degrees, and Aziraphale's extensive liquor collection did the closest thing they could to crying out in fear.

Crowley came to a stop just shy of the worn woven rug marking the center of the bookshop. A frown settled on his face as he studied what could only be the angel Aziraphale had mentioned during their call. Said angel was looking back at him as if his hair was a bubblegum pink instead of the regular auburn. Although, considering her pallet, a wild hair color may not have been underappreciated.

Crowley tilted his head, his nose wrinkling as if he smelled something unpleasant.

"You look like the physical embodiment of a vomit-stained carpet from a dying chain of third-rate bowling alleys."

Umbriel's lips pursed in confusion. "W-what?" she muttered.

"Ah! Ahahaha!" Aziraphale laughed, his voice straining. "I told you he has an air for comedic quips, no? I'm sorry, you'll have to excuse us for just one moment, my dear."

Aziraphale's forced smile vanished as he turned his back on the fellow angel. He tilted his head toward the back room before trotting away. A quirked eyebrow was shot Umbriel's way before Crowley took his sweet time joining Aziraphale.

"Be nice! Be nice! BE NICE!" Aziraphale hissed the second Crowley stepped into the small space. Crowley bumped his shoulder against a packed bookshelf, muttering to himself as he looked about the cramped enclosure.

"You know that's outside my league, angel," Crowley said, brushing dust off his black jacket. "Demons don't do ni–"

"That's a lie, you know it, and we're moving past it," Aziraphale cut in. He nudged Crowley aside to peek out the entryway to the back room. A relieved sound escaped his lips as he spotted Umbriel still standing toward the front of the shop, hugging her elbows in a nervous fashion.

"And what's with this 'my dear' business?" Crowley asked, saying the term of endearment as if it were painful. "You know 'er?"

"Well, yes, I do now," Aziraphale said, turning to meet Crowley's gaze. "She's very sweet; the whole 'Guardian' thing is quite endearing – I'm scratching myself over never going out of my way to talk to one, before."

"_Kicking _yourself," Crowley corrected. "And I don't know what game you're playing at, angel," the demon continued, lowering sunglasses down his nose as he studied Umbriel. "But I can tell you right now that it isn't gonna end well."

"You don't even know what my idea is yet!" Aziraphale said, offended. He watched as Crowley placed a finger on the bridge of his glasses, serpentine eyes disappearing from view.

"No, angel, but I know what she is, and so do you. You know very well that a Guardian could never be here by their own accord. She was ordered to come here."

Aziraphale's smile faltered, but every bit the angel, he chose to look on the bright side. "Well, yes, of course," he said. "But that doesn't mean that she doesn't actually _want _to be here."

"If she's spent more than two minutes in your company, than the answer is no."

A teasing grin adorned the demon's face as Aziraphale swatted him across the arm.

"She thanked me for saving the humans, Crowley," the angel implored. "She was genuinely grateful! And it got me thinking – oh, you'll like this – it got me thinking that she can't be the only one, can she? I mean, Guardians were created for the sole purpose of looking after the Almighty's children, and giving them a helping hand when they can. It's quite possible that there are more out there like her that would sympathize with us, yes?"

Crowley shifted his weight, a dubious expression falling over his face. "And why the hell would we care about that?"

"You said it yourself, didn't you?" Aziraphale said, his smile turning coy. "Five years ago, you said that the next war wouldn't be between Heaven and Hell, but between humans and ... um ... everything else."

"And?" Crowley said, shrugging his shoulders.

"And," Aziraphale said, his blue eyes twinkling, "we may not have to do it alone, don't you see? If there are other Guardians out there like her – ones that have spent centuries doing nothing but caring for humans – then they would want to fight for their well-being, wouldn't they? And there are some of your kind like that too, aren't there? Lesser demons? I mean, _obviously _they're not doing the same work as Guardians, but they've also been spending a lot of time here on Earth and maybe, just _maybe, _they would also want to side with us when the time comes."

Aziraphale tucked his hands behind his back, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet as he swelled with pride. Crowley seemed far less enthused, watching him with a blank expression. The demon tilted his head to-and-fro in contemplation before nodding slightly. Aziraphale's smiled widened.

"I think that's it," Crowley finally said. "Out of all the centuries I've known you, I think that's the closest you've ever come to having literal horse shit fall from your mouth."

Aziraphale sputtered. "Horse shi–! how dare–!"

"You're talking about _Guardians, _angel!" Crowley exclaimed, throwing up his hands. "Their version of miracles is winning 8 quid from a scratch ticket, or having an extra tie handy when your coffee gets jostled in a crowded lift on your way into the office. What could they _possibly _do to help us fight any sort of war?"

Aziraphale cleared his throat, standing up straighter. "I'm sure they can do more than that. And I think we can use the support, no matter how much or how little help they could provide. Every little bit counts, hmm? It can't just be the two of us against everyone else, Crowley."

"Why not?" Crowley said, as if the question was perfectly valid. Stuffing hands into his pockets, he leaned to peer out the entryway. "We got through bloody Armageddon that way, didn't we?"

"We most certainly did not!" Aziraphale said, aghast. "There were plenty of others helping us out, as I recall."

"Humans," Crowley said, returning his attention to Aziraphale. "There were plenty of _humans _helpin' us out. And there will be again, if they want to fight for this world."

"Of course," Aziraphale agreed. "But what could it hurt to have others of spiritual nature also standing with us?"

"Not ones like that," Crowley said. The look like he had smelled something vile returned. "Guardians only do what they're told. They'll side with us if you ask them to, angel, but they'll just as quickly join Heaven's army the second someone else commands it. And that–" Crowley tilted his head toward the front of the store "– that thing was sent here to do something. Spy on us, probably – give the other angels information to see if they can figure out how to get rid of us; it can't be trusted."

Aziraphale's brow furrowed. The gesture was one Crowley had seen hundreds, perhaps _thousands, _of times before, and he knew exactly what it meant. Irritation rose up in the demon's gut.

"Her name is _Umbriel_, and she's not a spy," Aziraphale said firmly. His serious expression flickered momentarily. "Well, perhaps she _is_ a spy, but I don't think she wants to be. And there's something that _I think _I might be able to do to help her."

"Do what you want," Crowley said. He leaned through the doorway, stalking toward the front door. He passed by Umbriel without a glance, although the lesser angel backed away as if even a slight brush from the hem of his jacket would cause her to set aflame. She had never been in any real contact with a demon before, so the idea was perfectly plausible in her mind.

"I'm not fool enough to get caught up in this, and neither should you, angel."

Despite the demon not lifting a finger, the door swung open with enough force to cause it to kick back and close with a loud bang. The two angels continued to stare at the entryway as they picked up the demon's muffled yelling as he shooed a flock of pigeons away from his car. The yelling stopped, followed by the scream of an electric guitar, more muffled cursing, and squealing tires which quickly faded away as the Bentley sped off.

And with that, Crowley was gone.

"Ah, well, yes, that was Crowley," Aziraphale said. Umbriel regarded Aziraphale with a baffled look.

"He'll come around," Aziraphale added amicably. He stepped forward and reached out to grasp Umbriel's hand.

"In the meantime, there's a proposition I would like to make, my dear."


	2. Chapter 2

"Mr. Aziraphale?"

"Yes?" Aziraphale answered, lifting his pen from the yellowing pages of a book of long-standing prophecies (most of them related to trees).

The angel peered at the empty space around the corner of the wide oak bookshelf. Umbriel soon filled the space, but it could have also been a certain tropical bird if you squinted. She was wearing a denim jacket with matching pants, a canary-yellow shirt, and a deep blue bucket hat. Her hair had been straightened to fall around her mid back, and her lips now sported a glittery pink gloss that was the type to have a _flavor_.

The angel would eventually discover that Umbriel had only small blips of her existence where she allowed herself to focus on much of anything other than the humans' well-being. One of these blips had happened between summer 1983 and fall 1997, respectively, where the lesser angel had decided that dressing in something other than a ghostly, flowing white dress was necessary as that trend widely stopped being accepted when the 70s were no longer a thing.

"A customer wants to know how much this is," Umbriel said, holding a large, deep green book before her. Aziraphale adjusted his reading glasses, his eyes narrowing as he read the cover.

"'The Keys to living a Good Life and What Comes Next: a collection of divinations by Doug Forcett and–'"

Aziraphale gasped as he regarded Umbriel in alarm. "This book is certainly not for sale! Don't you recall which of the shelves carry our retail collection and which ones are for restoration?! Please, hand it here."

Umbriel sheepishly handed Aziraphale the book. He hummed in a worried fashion like a mother inspecting a scrapped knee as he looked it over.

"It seems alright," he said after a moment, "but please do be careful. And remember: retail books are on the 3rd, 7th, 19th, and 23rd shelves going clockwise from the door. Restoration books are on the 4th, 6th, 12th, 15th and 16th, 18th, 20th, and 25th shelves, and then my personal collection takes up the 1st through 3rd, the … um …"

Aziraphale watched Umbriel for a moment as she fidgeted. A startled expression crossed her face as he trailed off.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Aziraphale! I'll do better. I'm still getting accustomed to remembering so much that isn't attached to a person. Oh, but that's a bad excuse. I'm sorry. Please correct me if I repeat it wrong, but it's the 3rd, 7th, 9th– no, 19th–"

"Lunch!" Aziraphale interjected. Umbriel flinched from the sudden outburst.

"But I just unlocked the doors only–"

"Time is a human construct," Aziraphale said in a chipper fashion. He gently placed his pen into a stand at the edge of the desk before removing his glasses and taking off the thin plastic gloves he wore while doing restorations. Once he was finished, Aziraphale clapped his hands excitedly as he stepped around Umbriel toward the stairs.

"Terribly sorry! We'll be closing for lunch now, so everyone please make your way to the front in an orderly fashion. Oh, no! Don't you touch that!"

Aziraphale disappeared from view as he descended the stairs. Umbriel let out a soft sigh before following after him.

**«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»**

"Alright now, let's practice again," Aziraphale said. He took a spoonful of salted caramel gelato and placed it in his mouth. There was a hum of delight before the spoon made a reappearance and the angel turned toward his companion. Umbriel's gelato was a mish-mash of raspberry, rocky road, and salted caramel (the last flavor was upon Aziraphale's insistence, although it was well before he knew she would be inclined to also request the odd combination), and although she didn't seem as outwardly delighted as the other angel, the confectionery treat was disappearing at a rate much faster than Aziraphale's despite being triple in size.

"OK," Umbriel replied mildly. She kept her gaze ahead as they strolled through the park. A large duck pond stretched along the path to the left and shallow hills accented with flower beds and benches panned out to their right. Other visitors to the area were fairly sparse since despite Aziraphale's declaration of 'lunch,' the time was only bordering on late morning. As a result, the bookshop had been open for a whopping 47 minutes before closing its doors.

The days may have gradually been growing warmer, yet Aziraphale had donned his cream-colored trench coat to combat the slight chill that still clung to the damp morning air. The habit was more of a psychological comfort, in all honesty, since temperature didn't affect ethereal beings nearly as much as earthly creatures. Aziraphale would argue, however, that it also helped him to blend in with society. Angels rarely lied, but speaking in partial truths was always one way to skirt an issue. In this case, Aziraphale had grown quite fond of keeping the trench coat in excellent condition over the past 126 years under his care, and had grown even fonder of making a reminder of such every time it was worn.

"Let's see, let's see," Aziraphale said. He tapped the small wooden spoon against his lip in a thoughtful fashion as his eyes roamed over their surroundings. Despite knowing the necessity of what they were about to do, Aziraphale took special consideration in making sure that the demand would be rather tame. But there was a part of him that he had picked up from a not-so-good influence _somewhere _that caused a playful tug at his cheeks.

Aziraphale eyed his companion, cocking an eyebrow.

"Toss your gelato into the pond."

The hand clutching Umbriel's gelato shot out in Aziraphale's direction. There was an undignified cry that was a cross between a hooting owl and a grandmother who was having digestive issues as the angel ducked under Umbriel's arm and danced sideways. Aziraphale was too busy to be embarrassed, however, as he panicked over his hold on his own dessert – the salted caramel attempting a revolt by getting dangerously close to the edge of his cup.

"Oh no! I'm sorry!"

Aziraphale's awkward stumbling came to a stop. The nearly empty container had tipped a little, but Umbriel's bowl of gelato was still firmly in hand. Despite the genuine apology, a hesitant smile parted her lips. Aziraphale regarded her in shock.

"Was that … was that a joke?" he asked.

"Yes. Sorry," Umbriel said bashfully. "I was a little cross you would ask me to do something horrible like throw my ice cream away."

Aziraphale placed his free hand on his belly, letting out a relieved sigh. He stepped forward to join Umbriel and the two continued their stroll. A gardener who had been within earshot of the entire debacle wondered what the hell had been mixed into their gelato.

"You should know that I wouldn't have asked that of you if I thought you _actually_ would," Aziraphale said in defense. He paused as he enjoyed another spoonful. "But I do suppose the joke was _tasteful, _hmm?"

Again, angels rarely lied. But they _could_ stretch the truth, in this case Umbriel laughing much harder at Aziraphale's pun than what was rightly warranted. Let it be known that there's an entire dimension of sub-par comedians floating above your head that think they're much funnier than in actuality because their peers are too polite to tell them otherwise.

It had been a few weeks since Aziraphale had given Umbriel the final order that she didn't have to follow orders from _any _angel unless she wanted to. The effectiveness of said condition was tested out periodically through random requests, some of which Umbriel still attempted to fulfill out of habit or simple kindness: this was how Aziraphale's sadly neglected kitchen had returned to a gleaming state. But that had been to test a scientific hypothesis … sort of.

After around three weeks of some getting used to the idea, Umbriel admitted that she no longer felt compelled to follow an order out of an ingrained duty. At least not from Aziraphale, anyway, although there was no certain way of knowing otherwise until she was summoned by the Archangels again, whenever that may be.

"And it's gelato, actually, not ice cream," Aziraphale said, unable to fight the itching urge in the back of his brain to correct Umbriel's earlier misconception.

Umbriel had actually been aware of this on some level, but after a few millennia all the human inventions that were more-or-less the same thing tended to blend together; her brain had nearly fried on the day she tried to wrap her head around both the how and the _why _concerning the number of different reality singing shows. Since then, she would generally default to basic definitions for items; now with the added element of Aziraphale's fussbudget nature expanding on the topic.

"It's Italian, although the first café to carry it was in France," the higher angel continued, waving his spoon about like a baton to drive home each point. "I traveled to Café Procope to see what all the fuss was about soon after I heard about it. I had already been to Francesco's café a few times before, since it was _the _place to be in Paris. And it was _Paris, _so that's saying something. Anyway, I believe the first flavor was less conventional by today's standards. Hazelnut, I think? Of course hazelnut is still quite popular, but it's not one of the heavy hitters in the gelato world like it used to be, you see."

Umbriel nodded. "Francesco … hmm. He liked cats."

"He was always a kind-hearted man," Aziraphale agreed, as if such a simple observation deemed the late chef worthy of praise. When it came to angels, their standards for finding redeemable traits where predictably low.

A scrapping sound signaled that Aziraphale had finally caught up to Umbriel in reaching the bottom of his bowl. When the angel ensured that it was sufficiently clean, he joined Umbriel in tossing their garbage in the bin. Umbriel turned her head and paused, a distant look behind her eyes before she suddenly bent down to untie the left lace of her sneaker.

"Oh," Aziraphale said, leaning over to observe her. "Should I keep my distance for this one?"

"No," Umbriel said, straightening up. "It should happen either way."

They continued down the small trail, Aziraphale smiling agreeably and nodding at those passing them by. A jogger in a tight blue shirt came toward them, the cable of the headphones sticking out of his grey sweatpants bouncing up and down with every long stride. He squeezed between Umbriel and another pedestrian as he passed, stepping down on Umbriel's shoelace. Umbriel let out a surprised squeak as she faltered and used Aziraphale's elbow to keep herself from tipping over. The jogger came to an abrupt stop, his jaw going slack as he tore one of the headphones from his ear.

"I'm so sorry, miss!" he said, looking Umbriel over. "Are you alright? Did I catch your foot?"

"No, no!" Umbriel said, waving away the notion. "I didn't notice my shoelace was untied, so it's on me. Thank you for the concern!"

The man regarded Umbriel with a sheepish expression as she bent down to tie her shoelace. Umbriel shot him a friendly smile which he returned before getting back on his way.

Aziraphale watched the man bound along the path with the slight pang of envy of seeing someone run who presumably didn't feel like their chest was going to explode after only moving nine meters. The notion and somewhat disturbing mental imagery slipped from the angel's mind as he watched Umbriel rise to her feet.

"I find it fascinating, you know," the higher angel said. "How Guardian's work is very amusing."

"I'm glad you think so," Umbriel said, warming her hands in her pockets. "I find it stressful. All I can do is give them a nudge and hope things line up right."

"But you're very talented at it, from what I've seen," Aziraphale said. They had rounded the far end of the pond, and were slowly making their way back toward the park entrance. Ancient oak trees lined the path on either side, although it was still a little too early in the season for them to be providing much shade.

"What was that one all about?" he asked.

Umbriel didn't answer for a moment. Aziraphale was aware that it took her some time to organize all her thoughts in way that came out as coherent. They would be there all day, otherwise.

"Jeffery – the jogger just now – his mother has Parkinson's," Umbriel finally said. "It's in early onset. His mother, Helen, usually gives him a call around noon on Fridays, but he'll miss this window now since he likes to leave his phone on the nightstand while he takes a shower. On the times Jeffery doesn't pick up when she calls, Helen will call her oldest child, Julia. After that, Helen will probably try Jeffery again. He should still be home, so he'll answer. I'm hoping that the tremor in Helen's hand will manifest itself either during her call with Julia or Jeffery. Julia will likely tell Jefferey a joke about their mother dropping the phone ..."

Umbriel's mouth twitched at the irritation before continuing, "or Jeffery will hear it himself if it happens during his call. Jeffery is courting a woman, Angela, whose great aunt has Parkinson's, so hopefully he will be concerned enough to have his mother see a doctor. Jefferey is the type to worry, so I think he will. Then Helen will get early treatment, which will certainly make things easier on the family."

Aziraphale chuckled in amazement. Guardians had always been considered the lowest class of angel; being utterly incapable of committing miracles that even someone only slightly higher in rank like Aziraphale would find trivial. And yet, what they lacked in ability to make drastic physical changes, they made up as walking encyclopedias for every living person on the planet.

Well, _sort off. _If their knowledge was from an encyclopedia, it would be one written by an over-caffeinated undergrad struggling to get the entire bloody thing done in one night.

Guardians are able to draw upon human knowledge in a 'casual observation' sense that leaves little room for complex thoughts or emotions. It's like how you simply know that your cousin Rob would absolutely adore a jet ski for his birthday – not because he mentioned it – but because you just _know _Rob. For that same reason, you don't need to be a mind reader to be almost certain that your cousin would likely plow the thing into a sandbar and snap his neck, so it would be best to get him a nice shower radio instead.

"Well, you sound fairly certain about this one," Aziraphale said. "I do hope it all works out."

"Me too," Umbriel agreed. "I believe the chances are eighty-two to ninety-three percent. Unless Helen's dog throws up on the carpet again. It will go down to only forty-four percent if that happens."

"Ah, let's drink to the dog's health when we get back, then," Aziraphale said, his eyes alight. "I have a lovely port for this type of occasion …"

He meant for the weather – not a sick dog – if you were wondering.

**«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»**

Crowley was in a foul mood. His mood only grew worse when he came to the realization that he was, in fact, in a foul mood. He sunk deeper back into the large, black leather office chair as his temperament continued to spiral ever downward. The plants in the adjacent hallway collectively held their breath in fear despite being well aware that they were physically incapable of doing so.

"I should call him," Crowley mumbled. "Tell him off and all that."

Crowley sat up to reach over the obsidian desk. His hand stilled as it hovered over the (unsurprisingly) black phone.

"No. No, no, no, that's all wrong," he grumbled. Crowley returned to a slouch, eyeing the phone as if it might leap to life at any moment.

It had been almost two months since he last saw Aziraphale. In the past, this wouldn't be considered that unusual over the course of their relationship. The pair had gone centuries, once even over a thousand years, between bumping into the other.

As their comradery had grown, however, their meetings grew more commonplace to where the gap between visits were almost always less than a decade. And during the past five years since the two of them had put an end to the world coming to an abrupt stop, it was unusual for the two friends to not meet up any less than once every week or two, if not more often. Crowley had gotten well-adjusted to receiving calls at any hour of the day from the angel requesting his presence for lunch, drinks, or a trip to the theater (Aziraphale had eventually picked up on the fact that the 'exciting' plays were the only ones safe from the actors' pants inexplicably falling down or the sound system blaring electronica while the lights flashed like a discotheque).

The fact that both Crowley's and Aziraphale's expected workloads over the past few years had … _lightened_, to say the least, gave them plenty of time for each other's company. Crowley couldn't be 100% certain about the angel, but he hadn't received anything more than the occasional death threat communication from hell through his Bentley's stereo. In other words: Crowley had been left with little else to do beside visit Aziraphale and conduct the occasional misdeed for his own amusement. He had no deadlines, no presentations, no reports.

Hell wasn't expecting him to do a single goddamned thing.

The freedom was certainly liberating, and Crowley wouldn't trade it for anything since he had always reveled in the ability to shirk responsibility for his own desires. He had an almost endless amount of time to do so, now, which had been great up until he started having trouble of thinking of ways to fill it.

Crowley had been around Earth for, well, _all of _it, so there wasn't much he had yet to see or do. Sure, humans were continuously changing, and the new technology was always something to marvel at, but more and more often Crowley found that he could get all the information he needed from the (unsurprisingly) black laptop in his possession instead of treading aimlessly through the nations. And as the internet got more … _advanced, _even a demon like Crowley found out that there were many things out there that he certainly would have been better off not knowing.

On top of it all, the one and only companion he had to talk to had been ignoring him for over a month. It was unlikely that the angel was unavailable, or 'previously disposed,' as he would put it. Aziraphale chose to keep to his own company much of the time; buried beneath a library of prophecies and other literary oddities. Occasionally this would lead to the angel being so engrossed in a book that he wouldn't move for _days, _but even so, he never failed to take a call from Crowley if he was about. Crowley wasn't normally the one who needed to reach out, anyway, since the angel always seemed over the moon to call at any time and spill out even the most mundane aspects of his day.

And yet after two weeks of radio silence, when Crowley decided to make sure Aziraphale was still in this corporal realm, the angel had assured him that everything was 'okie dokie' before making a hasty explanation to end the call. That had been the last Crowley had heard from Aziraphale, the demon being too stubborn and unadmittedly offended to call back. He had figured the angel would eventually come calling with an apology of some sort – but after hours, then days, then weeks of waiting, no hide nor hair of the angel had been seen.

All of these thoughts once again reminded Crowley of his foul mood. The office chair let out a low groan on the demon's behalf as Crowley sunk so deep in his seat that he was nearly hanging out of it.

"Maybe I should get a cat," he mused to the tabletop.

The fleeting thought was swiftly pushed away with an aggravated grunt as Crowley waved his arm in a dismissive manner. He ran a hand through his hair, causing his wavy pompadour to lose its perfectly tousled shape. However, the action left him with an effortlessly 'just got out of bed' look humans were rather fond of, so not much harm was done.

"Maybe the Archangels got him."

Crowley put on a contemplative frown. He was well aware that his old friend was more than capable of taking care of himself, so the odds were unlikely. Although the notion did leave him with a decent excuse for an unannounced visit, which Crowley was always supportive of (he had invented the concept himself, much to the delight of mothers-in-law everywhere).

"It'll just be a quick pop in," Crowley said, his lithe form sliding out of the chair and somewhat awkwardly under the table, although the demon would be too proud to admit it.

"In and out. Just to make sure he didn't do something pigheaded to get himself discorperated."

A jaunty tune floated through the air via a perfectly pitched whistle. The melody would put a pep in anyone's step if it weren't for the fact that they didn't now have an unexplainable urge to glance worriedly over their shoulder.

Crowley stepped through the doorway of his office with a snap to his fingers. The heavy metal doors pulled themselves closed, a low boom heralding his departure.

**«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»**

"To Helen!"

The crystal let out a merry clink as the two glasses came together. Aziraphale giggled, taking another sip of the wine.

"Oh!" he said, pulling the glass away. "And to the health of her dear companion … err …"

"Jubilee," Umbriel said, holding in her laughter from the stupefied look that had fallen across the other angel's face.

"Ah, yes! To Jubilee!" Aziraphale exclaimed. "May he stop rummaging through the bin and ruining poor Helen's throw rug."

The glasses came together again. Aziraphale finished the (not so modest) amount of wine left in his glass before reaching for the bottle sitting on the short table between his armchair and the sofa where Umbriel sat. He offered to top Umbriel off but she promptly placed her hand over the glass with a shake of her head. Aziraphale didn't seem to mind, humming a tune as the rosy-pink liquid escaped the bottle to fill his own.

Over the past few weeks, Umbriel had come to discover how much Aziraphale enjoyed what he liked to refer to as a 'good old chinwag' over drinks on an almost daily basis. Aziraphale had a wine collection that would make most connoisseur's swoon, and had a variety to pair with almost any dish or occasion imaginable. Umbriel had found it all rather impressive, but her impression dulled somewhat when she discovered _how, _precisely, Aziraphale kept such a full stock of fine wine.

The higher angel would insist that they drink to their content … then promptly use a miracle to put it all back. The miracle in particular reversed the effect time had taken on their bodies, and transferred the alcohol via unseen means right back into their original homes. The bottles would fill up, the tipsy effect would vanish, and the two of them would be able to pick back up on running the bookshop or Umbriel stepping out for some light meddling with human affairs. It was undoubtedly convenient, but the effect left a bitter, fuzzy sensation to Umbriel's tongue which only got worse the more she drank. And so, Umbriel found herself limiting her consumption to a glass or two which she would nurse over the hours they would spend chatting.

"Jubilee," Aziraphale said, a dreamy look to his eyes. "That Helen rather likes ... rather likes "J" names, doesn't she? Her children were Jeffery and Julia, then there's little ..." Aziraphale giggled again. "Jubilee."

"Her mother's name was Juliet," Umbriel added, looking off into space. "Her late husband's name was Jonathan, and she has another son two years younger than Jeffery named Joseph."

"And the poor pet is just _Helen,_" Aziraphale said with chuckle. He took another sip of wine, admiring the way sunlight illuminated the interior of the old bookshop to amplify its cozy nature. Aziraphale wasn't the type of creature for napping, but he was now starting to see what Crowley was going on about. He figured he was coming around to the notion, and might give it a go in a decade or so.

"She and Crowley would probably ... yes, probably get along," Aziraphale said absently. When no comment came from his companion, Aziraphale glanced over to see her regarding him as if his skin had turned a rather unappealing shade of orange. Upon being caught doing so, Umbriel broke their gaze and starting chugging the rest of her glass in a way that would make any fraternity brother proud.

"His middle initial is 'J,' you see," Aziraphale explained. "It doesn't stand for anything – Crowley just likes the letter 'J.'"

The lesser angel would have thought this was the dumbest thing she had ever heard if she didn't have the history of all of humanity crammed into her head. The statement was bordering into the top 5,000, though, which still said _a lot._

Aziraphale watched his companion with concern, although it had nothing to do the dizzying rate of alcohol consumption. He had prepared himself early on concerning how to ease Umbriel into the idea of befriending a demon, knowing that the process would likely be ... tedious, to put it lightly.

For Aziraphale himself, the argument could have been made that it took him centuries. Crowley had surprised him in the beginning by having a nature that was rather cordial for a demon, leading the angel to be more open when the wily serpent would unexpectedly appear to strike up a conversation.

Aziraphale's interest had been peaked as the centuries passed, and he began to notice that although Crowley was generally up to no good, he seemingly went against his nature and got by on dispersing less _suffering_ and more _annoyance _among the humans. Rumors would spread every now and again that Crowley was the reason behind many of the _really _nasty wars and plagues that wiped through the continent. However, the demon would admit with a sly smirk that in actuality it was simply him taking the credit for a group project he didn't bother to show up for. Aziraphale wasn't sure if Crowley's actions were more out of laziness or kindness, but he eventually began to find them endearing all the same.

But it wasn't until sometime around the 18th century that things shifted. On the particular day in question, Aziraphale had been taking a stroll down an unkempt cobbled street in the English countryside and caught a glimpse of the morning sun as it rose up over green embankments and grazing sheep. Aziraphale was struck with the thought about how nice it would be to describe the peaceful scenery touched with pink and golden hues to his good chum Crowley.

_Wait,_ he had thought._ 'Good chum Crowley?'_

To the shepherd coming the opposite way down the narrow path, he saw an innocuous looking chap stop, gaze lovingly at the sunrise, suddenly frown, let out an expletive that would make a sailor blush, then dash down the road mumbling to himself.

This was shortly before Crowley had rescued Aziraphale from the looming danger of tedious paperwork and Heaven's version of a pink slip by (literally) saving his neck in Paris. Their arrangement had been somewhat – _strained __–_at times, but ultimately Aziraphale considered the demon to be a good friend, and (unironically) one of the better people he knew.

Even so, the angel knew that there would be an uphill battle when it came to his newest acquaintance. When he first brought up the notion of Crowley being _'really not all that bad,'_ he had been more than ready for Umbriel to be repulsed, to be horrified, to be confused, and even to be amazed over his insistence that she should befriend the demon.

But by all accounts, he _hadn't _been prepared for what he got.

The first time Aziraphale tried to strike up a conversation on the touchy topic, he had done so over tea biscuits, donuts, and cakes, which was probably the most crafty an angel like Aziraphale could get. If you can't have war without War, then you certainly can't butter someone up without Butter.

But Umbriel had put on a smile, tilted her head, and started speaking in a soft, slow voice between bites of Victorian sponge.

"Oh? You two went to the park? How lovely."

Umbriel would dip a biscuit into her hibiscus tea.

"Ah. Seeing that show in person must have been _very fun."_

Umbriel would split her donut in half so they could both enjoy the blueberry crumble.

"Oh yes, I'm sure he was _fantastically helpful _in saving the world, Mr. Aziraphale."

For the first time in all history, Aziraphale had been treated like a child. Or to put it bluntly – Umbriel thought he was touched in the head.

Well, it may not have been _exactly _that, but the lesser angel seemed to be unable to process the fact that Crowley could be anything less than awful. So, she defaulted to the idea that Aziraphale was greatly exaggerating any and all nice things he had to say concerning Crowley's disposition, and thus promptly dismissed their validity.

Little progress had been made to change this fact over the past few weeks despite Aziraphale's valiant efforts. He had even gone to the length of making sure said demon would keep a distance until the higher angel had a chance to place a more positive spin on Crowley for the Guardian's benefit. Crowley insulting Umbriel on their first meeting had already made things difficult, and the last thing the angel needed was another headache if the two of them met again under less than ideal circumstances. He could only hope the process of their cordial union could be completed in less than a few decades.

"Crowley also likes ... oh Lord, umm ... plants! Yes, plants, very much so plants," Aziraphale continued, clinging desperately to a positive note. He reached over to top off Umbriel's empty glass, although the lesser angel had a rather put-out look as she watched the alcohol churn for a reason Aziraphale was too busy to dwell on.

"Remember those gorgeous hydrangeas we spotted in the park earlier, hmm? Crowley will step _around_ those instead of through them like he does with the grass. I suppose that grass is a plant, too, but he doesn't seem as keen on it."

"Yes, that's very noble," Umbriel said, her smile having about as much meaning behind it as a Barbie doll's.

"And he _adores _humans, you know," Aziraphale said, reaching into a dangerously grey area. "He knows lots of them! Like, err… well… Anathema, and Adam ... a little bit ... Ah, oh! He's always going to the cinema. Do you go to the cinema?"

"I can pull up summaries of every film created."

"How _interesting! _I'm sure you and Crowley would have oodles to discuss. I never go to the cinema, personally; too loud."

Umbriel made an agreeable sound, her eyes wandering as she took a sip of her drink and tucked her legs beneath her. Her straight-backed posture was a contrast to the usual occupant of the antique sofa; if Umbriel was a meticulously placed throw pillow sporting sequins and pink tassels, then Crowley would be a silk sheet draped over the side in a seemingly thoughtless fashion (although one would be hard pressed to imagine the sofa looking complete without it).

The distant look in Umbriel's eyes prompted the subject matter of the demon to be dropped for the time being; trying to push things too far would only make things more difficult, Aziraphale surmised. This prompted him to sink into his seat with a frown over yet another failed attempt. The higher angel's forgiving nature didn't allow him to be vexed over the matter, but it did leave him feeling rather disappointed that quite some time may still need to pass before his favorite drinking companion could once again be folded into afternoon chinwags. Umbriel was capable of having in-depth conversations over almost any subject matter imaginable (Aziraphale now had a preference for using this quirk to learn new information as opposed to the horribly confusing computational machines), but the conversations lacked the biting wit and examination of opposing viewpoints that urged Aziraphale to think critically and keep on his toes. It wasn't to say that conversing with Umbriel was _bad, _it was simply ... tranquil.

In fact, Aziraphale found that he didn't entirely dislike when lulls appeared in his conversations with the Guardian. A content hush would fall over the bookshop, and not for the first time since her arrival, Aziraphale would be reminded of a time, long, long, _long _ago; even before The Garden.

It had almost been too far back for him to recall what it was like to spend time in the company of other angels who weren't hell bent on obliterating him. Since he didn't even possess any sort of corporal form back then, the sensation could only be described as the essence of serenity – like two dust motes lazily floating about each other in a sunbeam through an opaque window. He and Umbriel were on the same wavelength, as it were, and when Aziraphale took a moment to pause and just _feel, _it was something not unlike his visits to Tadfield where he could pick up love radiating all around him. Umbriel was a living, breathing representation of the Almighty's fondness for her children, and being in her presence came across as extraordinarily relieving after undergoing a fiasco where there was some honest doubt whether Aziraphale may have been the only angel who actually gave a damn about the human's well-being. The Guardian was a validation that Aziraphale was doing the right thing, and for an angel this roughly translated to a feeling akin to a human popping a xanax.

Aziraphale was now feeling rather content, watching rose pink wine swirl as he tilted his glass. But Umbriel, who wasn't drunk enough on neither wine or affirmation to fully appreciate the atmosphere, broke the silence.

"Can I ask you a personal question?"

Umbriel took a cautious sip of wine, watching Aziraphale expectantly. She found that the fellow angel was far more receptive to certain personal matters when he grew quiet, or on his second bottle of dry port, whichever came first.

Aziraphale inhaled as if waking from a deep slumber. He blinked at her with a bleary-eyed expression before answering.

"If it's about the car again," Aziraphale said, waving his hand about. "I _know _that they make more economi- econo- environmentally friendly models now, but I like setting an example with taking public transport."

"Not about the car," Umbriel said, a smile on her lips. "It's about the beige."

"Beige?" Aziraphale said with a frown.

"You always dress in beige," Umbriel continued, indicating his current outfit. Aziraphale was sporting a pair of pressed tan slacks, a white button up shirt underneath a beige waistcoat, a blue and brown tartan bowtie, and a cream-colored jacket.

Aziraphale sputtered at the perceived affront to his fashion sense, his relaxed slouch retreating. Umbriel cursed herself for not waiting for another bottle to be consumed before asking the question.

"Eggnog!" Aziraphale shouted, holding his wine glass high in one hand while he indicated his jacket with the other. "This is an _eggnog _crème from France, mind you! And this–"

Aziraphale pointed at his knee. "This is _parmesan_, not _beige!"_

Aziraphale spat out the last word as if it caused him physical pain. Umbriel tried to manage the sudden outburst before it grew grander in scope.

"I only asked because it suits you very well!" she said. "Very dapper," she added quickly.

Aziraphale's temperament changed on a dime. He beamed at her as if he were a six-year-old child receiving the compliment instead of a six thousand-year-old otherworldly entity.

"It does, don't you think?" the higher angel said agreeably. "The Almighty deemed to dress me in all white, in the beginning, and I like to think that I've shaken things up a bit."

Umbriel nodded, peering at him over the edge of her wine glass. Aziraphale may have been well aware of all the times Umbriel skirted around an issue with blatant flattery, but he didn't appear to mind. On the contrary, Umbriel could have sworn that the higher angel appeared far less excitable on their first meeting, but now seemed to find small affronts to certain subjects as an excuse to be complimented and given an opportunity to expand on said topic. It was a rather odd quality for an angel to have, she decided, but it kept things amusing. Well, as long as he didn't start rambling on about–

"I was traveling through the south of ... south of France when I came across this jacket, actually," Aziraphale said, a far-away look in his eyes. Umbriel's groan became a gurgle as she brought the glass to her lips.

"Dauphiné it was, at the time," Aziraphale continued, lost in his own world of thread counts and tartan. "Have you ever been? No? Well, in the spring they have lovely–"

The sound of screeching tires and a blaring horn cut Aziraphale's tale short. He whipped his head about to regard the door. After a few seconds, more sounds seeped through the wood, most notably being the slamming of a car door and the muffled argument of two individuals on the street.

"Oh dear," Aziraphale said, putting down his glass. He turned back to Umbriel with a panicked expression. "Back room! Back room!"

Umbriel put down her glass before skittering toward the back of the shop. She no longer felt an obligation to do so, but she also had no desire to engage with the creature she knew was on the other side of that door.

Aziraphale stood, somewhat shakily, scrunching his brow and puffing out his cheeks. The alcohol that had been in his system rapidly retreated back into the bottle as he regained much of his senses. After a bit of rapid blinking, the angel swiftly stowed the two wine glasses behind a pair of red leather books on a neighboring shelf before spinning around as the door swung open. He smacked his dry tongue once against the roof of his mouth before putting on a genial smile.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale exclaimed, opening his arms wide. "To what do I owe the pleasure, old chap?"

"Don't," Crowley warned, brandishing a finger. He stepped past Aziraphale, stopping at the center of the shop to peer about. His gaze lingered on the three full wine bottles sitting on the short table before returning his attention to Aziraphale.

"Where the hell have you been?" Crowley spat.

"Oh, you know me," Aziraphale said with chuckle. "I've been on _quite_ the kick restoring some of Doug Forcett's old works and I've been completely absorbed. Did you know he predicted that thing they have now where they use chickpea water, or _aquafaba, _to create a sort of vegan meringue? I had to admit that the revelation was far ahead of its time, and I believe the only reason Doug didn't use it himself was due to the availability of canned goods. Well, I suppose they hadn't come about yet, which makes it all the more impressive."

Crowley didn't speak, instead peering at a nearby bookshelf.

"Were you even listening?" Aziraphale asked.

"No," Crowley replied. He reached behind one of the books and produce a wine glass. He rotated the glass so that the glittery gloss mark faced Aziraphale. An eyebrow lifted over his dark spectacles.

"Oh, yes, that," Aziraphale said, smiling. "I had a friend over for drinks earlier, but she had to run shortly before you arrived."

"A friend?" Crowley asked. He opened his hand, the glass falling to the floor and shattering with an impressive tinkling sound. Aziraphale's demand for Crowley to fetch the broom was drowned out by the demon's shouting.

"You're smarter than this, angel!" Crowley said, his voice rising. He stalked toward Aziraphale, crystal crunching beneath his snake-skin shoes as he stopped to tower over him (or at least doing his best, since they were both around the same height). Crowley tore the sunglasses from his face, yellow eyes boring into blue as Aziraphale blinked back at him.

Unfortunately for Crowley, the demon's scathing looks didn't have much 'oomph' toward an angel who had literally faced down Satan himself.

"If you're trying to intimidate me, you know it won't work," Aziraphale said, hardening his expression. Crowley continued to stare for a moment before turning away. He slid the round frames back on his nose as he stalked about in wide circles.

"That thing is trying to figure out a way to destroy you, angel. I _know _that you know that," Crowley said, unable to hide his irritation. "I _know _that by all accounts you would normally ask that thing to get the hell out of here and never return. And yet …"

Crowley's arms opened to indicate the broken crystal. "And _yet, _here we are. You accused me before of having an exit strategy, and now it looks like it's my turn to do the same."

Aziraphale looked Crowley up and down as if he had to take in the full effect of the demon to feel properly flabbergasted.

"I _am not _planning on asking her to kill me! How could you even imply such a thing? I have no desire in being destroyed, and I have even less of a desire to ask poor Umbriel to do it!"

Crowley laughed, no mirth behind the gesture. "_Poor Umbriel? _Poor ... Umbriel?!"

Crowley kicked aside a pile of crystal causing the material to scatter about the floor. Not to worry though, the helpful feet of unsuspecting visitors will find the pieces later.

Crowley brought his face up to Aziraphale's, a snarl on his lips as he drove his finger into the angel's chest.

"That feathered tart couldn't give two shits about your well-being. There is only one reason why it would be here, and the fact that you're allowing it to do so only means you're giving it a chance to do the Archangel's dirty work. I can guarantee that thing will stab you in the back the first chan–"

"You should leave."

Crowley paused. Both he and Aziraphale slowly turned their heads toward the other end of the shop. Umbriel stood between two tall shelves, forcing a determined expression onto her face.

"_I _should leave?" Crowley asked, backing away from Aziraphale. He chuckled, pointing at the Guardian. "_You _should go fu–"

"Umbriel," Aziraphale said, keeping his eyes locked on Crowley. "I order you to leave this bookshop immediately and never return."

Crowley beamed like a seven-year-old being told he was going to Disneyland.

"Thank you!" the demon exclaimed, raising his arms in triumph. "That's the spirit, angel!"

The mirth suddenly drained from Crowley's face. That was just too _easy. _His attention snapped to Aziraphale to regard him with a perplexed look.

"Wait. Just like that?"

"Just like that," Aziraphale said, something devious tugging at the edge of his mouth. "You asked me to order her to leave, and I did as you requested."

Crowley returned his gaze to the lesser angel. Umbriel regarded him in contempt with one hand on her hip and a pucker to her lips. They stared at each other, unmoving, for almost a minute before Umbriel finally spoke.

"You're going to clean this up, right?" she asked, indicating the shards scattered about.

Crowley regarded the floor, Umbriel, Aziraphale, back to Umbriel, then Aziraphale again before speaking.

"What the hell is happening?"

Aziraphale made a pleased hum as he joined Crowley at his side.

"I told you I had an idea, didn't I? I ordered Umbriel here to only follow orders from other angels if she so desires. Theoretically, she now has as much freedom to do as she likes as you or I."

Crowley's mouth was agape and his brow furrowed as if he were trying to make out Umbriel from miles away. Umbriel tolerated the attention for a moment before regarding Aziraphale with a pleading expression.

"We won't be opening up the shop again today, so you can go up to the bedroom now if you like, my dear," Aziraphale said. Umbriel watched him doubtfully, but he waved away the concern. "It's alright, it's alright. He's just in a bit of shock, that's all. I can more than handle it."

Umbriel pursed her lips and shot Crowley another distrustful look before turning and disappearing behind the sea of books. Crowley continued to stare at where she had been for a moment before his teeth clicked shut.

"The _bedroom?" _he asked, whipping his head to stare at Aziraphale. Aziraphale raised his eyebrows, white-blonde hair bobbing from the slight shake of his head.

"I just revealed to you that I may have found a way to circumvent the hierarchy of angels, and you're asking about a _room?"_

"Not _a _room," Crowley corrected. "The bedroom. _Your _bedroom."

"Oh, yes. Where else would she put her things?"

"She _lives _here?"

"Of course. Having Umbriel live here over the past few weeks has expedited our bonding process tremendously," Aziraphale stated matter-of-factly. "I would go so far as to say that we are on rather friendly terms."

Like anyone, Crowley's mind went to the default assumption. But then he recalled who he was talking to.

"It's just clothes up in the bedroom, innit?"

"Oh, it's getting rather full," Aziraphale said, fretting. "I got rid of the other furniture, but even with the extra rack it's a little hard to squeeze around; I had been contemplating losing a few pounds just to have an easier time, you know. But I've been about the same weight for the past 500 years, so I'd have to get so many articles tailored that it wouldn't be worth the effort, don't you think?"

Crowley made a sound signifying that he couldn't care less about the matter. It was a toss-up whether Aziraphale really believed this sound to be an indication for him to expand upon a subject or if it was just wishful thinking.

"I don't think I've ever seen so much leopard print in my life outside of the real thing on the savanna," Aziraphale said. "Fake, of course," the angel quickly corrected. "The sort of style young people have these days is really a gas. She has a pair of trousers with _zippers _on the pockets, if you can believe it."

Aziraphale chuckled as a thought struck him. "She's actually rather funny, you know. Not in the 'witty insults' category you're so fond of, but in the more … what is it? Tasteful sort of sense, I suppose. Just earlier this afternoon, the two of us were strolling through the park …"

Aziraphale paused for a dramatic effect that went unreservedly unappreciated.

"And she – you won't believe this – she made it seem like she was going to toss gelato all over my trench coat! The macaroon-colored one, you know. I was mortified! Nearly leapt out of my skin! Oh, but I skipped the part where I asked her to do that, first. Well, not _at me_ but into the lake. It would have been such a shame if she had really done it, since the owner just introduced a salted caramel flavor that is absolutely divine."

"Angel."

"Yes?" Aziraphale said, smiling expectantly.

"I don't care."

**«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»**

"I can't make you answer my questions," Crowley said, putting his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward in the small chair, "but I can sniff out a lie a mile away."

Umbriel sat opposite him on the other side of the round area rug at the center of the shop. Crossing her arms, she regarded Crowley as if the only difference between him and a dead toad was the color.

Umbriel's makeup had been wiped away, and her hair braided over her shoulder to accompany the zebra-striped pajama set she now wore. Despite being in black-and-white, the outfit was still the loudest thing Crowley had experienced all day.

"Question one," Crowley said, his voice steady. "How do you do your sourcing? Your outfit earlier must have been at least half of the market's supply of white-washed denim leftover from the closets of preteen girls who are now approaching a mid-life crisis. I was under the impression that everything of that nature was burned during the culling of '03."

Umbriel pursed her lips, green eyes moving to lock on to something behind Crowley.

"Crowley, please," Aziraphale said, slowly pacing behind the demon. He shot Umbriel an apologetic look before the lesser angel's attention reluctantly returned to the creature before her.

"Alright, pin that for later," Crowley said. He leaned back, draping an arm over the back of the chair. "What were your original orders?"

Umbriel's expression turned sheepish. She looked away from the dark-tinted lenses to stare at the floor.

"Archangel Uriel appeared before me around two years ago," Umbriel said slowly. "She made the request that I find a way to make Mr. Aziraphale's acquaintance and get within his good graces. I am to compile any information about Mr. Aziraphale and–"

Umbriel paused, shooting Crowley a brief glance before continuing. "… and you so I can make a report upon her discretion."

Crowley turned in his seat to regard Aziraphale. A smug look adorned his face as he waved in Umbriel's direction.

"I _know _all of that already," Aziraphale said, rolling his eyes. "I asked her to tell me that on day one."

Crowley's attention drifted back to the lesser angel. He tapped his fingers against the back of the chair for a moment in contemplation.

"Why did it take you so long to follow through with your orders?" he asked. "My lot would have flayed you for a delay like that."

Umbriel squirmed in her seat. "I'm … not good at learning how to do new things that are outside of human affairs. Getting up the courage to talk to Mr. Aziraphale and not immediately give away my motives was … difficult."

"And you still told him all about it on day one, so bravo on cocking that up," Crowley quipped. A flush touched Umbriel's cheeks. Aziraphale made a disapproving tut accented with a slight slap to Crowley's shoulder.

"But," Crowley said, rolling his head on his shoulders, "the Archangels would've figured that would happen, obviously. They still trusted you to get in the angel's good graces despite it all. So that leads to the next question of whether this entire thing," Crowley reached out to wave his hand in a circle, "is the real deal or just an elaborate ruse."

"She isn't lying, Crowley," Aziraphale interjected.

"It isn't like she can't," Crowley continued. "Lying is a bit of a grey area for your lot, as I recall. If she believes that figuring out a way to destroy you is for the greater good – what would stop her from being whatever it is she needs to be in order to win you over? And you angels have far more patience from what I've seen. It could be centuries, but one day she'll come away with a little piece of information that can be used against you and–"

Crowley leaned forward in his seat, causing Umbriel to flinch as he clapped his hands in her face. "Poof! No more wayward angel to cause the imbeciles upstairs any problems."

Crowley leaned back in his seat as the smug expression returned. Aziraphale only sighed. His pacing had stopped momentarily as he spotted one of Shakespeare's original works lying neglected on the floor. Small clouds of dust floated through the air as the angel fretted and brushed his hand over the cover.

"That … that's not how it is," Umbriel said. She squirmed like a child who had been caught sneaking into a sweets shop after it had closed; not because she was going to steal anything, mind you, but because she didn't want her friends to leave her behind.

"Not anymore. I already had a feeling that what happened before was supposed to be the real end of times, and Mr. Aziraphale confirming it showed me that the Archangels only cared about the war, not the humans."

"Well said," Aziraphale said encouragingly. He came to stand over Crowley's shoulder, regarding Umbriel with a pleased expression. Umbriel's demeanor immediately brightened.

"_This_ is what I'm talking about!" Crowley said with a groan. "_This _is exactly what you would want to hear from another angel, no? A sympathizer to confirm that you were doing the right thing by saving humanity, and you weren't _really _going against the Almighty's wishes, and blah blah blah. This feather duster is _exactly _the thing the Archangels would send your way to let your guard down."

"I'm not a feather duster," Umbriel said, the scowl making a reappearance.

"Oh, really?" Crowley replied. "You're practically useless and went out of style decades ago."

Umbriel bristled, although the action was more akin to the closely related brushes than to her new namesake.

Aziraphale circled around to stand between the two, now genuinely concerned not only about the well-being of his companions, but also the state that his books may find themselves in if things continued to escalate.

"Yes, yes," Aziraphale said. He caught his mistake, swiftly looking down at Umbriel. "Oh, no. Not to the feather duster thing, but to the, um…"

Aziraphale turned back to Crowley. The demon sat back in puzzlement over the melancholy smile suddenly adorning the angel's face.

"There is no way of knowing, I admit," Aziraphale said softly. "It's possible that everything I believe I know about Umbriel is a falsehood. However, I choose to believe her because last time I chose to trust someone I was dubious about, things all turned out for the better."

Crowley's emotions retreated under an impartial mask. Aziraphale paused to stare at him for a moment before taking a quick breath and turning away.

"Well then, it's getting late. Umbriel, I did promise to give you another lesson in restoring the bindings on spines, yes? How about you locate those gloves I picked out for you the other day and meet me upstairs. You have a rather steady hand, so I believe it'll be a doddle."

Umbriel regarded Aziraphale with uncertainty. The angel only gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder before she finally stood and gave him a slight nod. She shot a sideways glance at Crowley, but the demon's attention still appeared fixated on the other angel.

When the equestrian-like pajamas disappeared from view, Aziraphale turned back to Crowley. The demon slowly rose to his feet, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"I don't agree with this, angel," Crowley whispered. Aziraphale stepped around his friend and made his way toward the door. Crowley had known the angel long enough to see that the jaunt to his step was more than a little forced. A low rumble reverberated through his throat before following after him.

"You don't have to agree," Aziraphale said, "but I think it's unfair that you won't give her a chance."

"A chance to do what?" Crowley asked, glancing back toward the shelves as if they, too, deserved the same level of scorn. "Stab me in the back first?"

"Precisely," Aziraphale agreed. Dark lenses flashed as Crowley's head turned to regard the angel as if he had lost more than just his marbles.

"That's what 'trust' is, Crowley," Aziraphale said. "Sometimes you have to take things at face value and hope that your feelings toward another are reciprocated in return. Life would be terribly isolating, otherwise."

Crowley swept a hand through his hair, scratching his scalp in frustration. He kept his eyes on Aziraphale, looking in vain for any sort of hesitation on the angel's part. He let out a defeated sigh when none was found. "Don't come crying to me for help, angel."

"I don't plan on it," Aziraphale said. He politely opened the door for his old friend with a smile.

·◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊·

Aziraphale's statement stayed true for a matter for four days.

"No."

"Please!"

"If you ask me again, you'll find the contents of this cup miraculously appearing in your breast pocket," Crowley said, holding up the shot of espresso. Aziraphale eyed the drink warily before sinking down in his seat.

"I just think you'll be surprised, is all," Aziraphale said, frowning at the leftover crumbs from his biscotti.

Crowley turned away, taking a sip of the coffee as he regarded the busy street from where they were seated outside a small café a few blocks down from Aziraphale's bookshop. Their short excursion of a stroll through the park before stopping to appease the angel when he was feeling peckish had _almost _felt normal. They had chatted about the weather, about Crowley's upgrade to his cell phone (most of which went over Aziraphale's head), and whether it would be unpatriotic for Aziraphale to snag them tickets to see Hamilton.

Despite the idle chatter, it was plain as day that they both had the same topic hovering in the back of their minds. After nearly two hours of strained conversation, Aziraphale had finally decided to bring up the subject in question.

"I have no interest putting my life at risk," Crowley said, returning his attention to his companion. "I believe I did enough of that already during Armageddon."

"How in Heaven would spending an afternoon with Umbriel possibly put your life at risk?" Aziraphale asked. Although he couldn't see the full effect through the lenses, he watched in disapproval as Crowley rolled his eyes.

"I dunno, angel, but I don't want to risk it. There's nothing for me to gain out of it, either way."

"A new friend, perhaps?" Aziraphale said, a cheesy smile plastered on his face as he strove toward tempting the demon. "It would be nice to have someone other than myself to talk to, wouldn't it? Although I do make rather pleasant company."

Crowley let out a snort in disagreement. Aziraphale's expression turned coy.

"Oh, you like me."

"Shut up," Crowley said, finishing off the espresso with a swig. He rose to his feet and started to button his tailored black jacket.

"I, well," Aziraphale said, rising from the table. "I haven't asked her yet, about joining our side or anything. I didn't want to mention it until you've had a chance to speak with her."

"I have spoken to her, unless you've forgotten," Crowley said, stepping away. His hand reached out to snap a few bills off the neighboring table and stuff them in his pocket, a habit he had gotten into over the years whenever dining out with the angel. It was normally done in jest, but today a not-so-thin measure of passive-aggressiveness had slithered in. Aziraphale, knowing to be ever-vigilant during meals where Crowley had consumed any number less than three glasses of wine, clicked his tongue in disapproval as he set down his tip for their meal and added a generous amount onto the nearby table for good measure.

"And my answer," Crowley continued as he strode away, "is that the only thing you should do is tell her to shove her innocent routine where the sun don't shine and go back to cowering before the Archangels like before."

"I most certainly will not say anything of the sort," Aziraphale said as he caught up. "Please just give her a chance, Crowley," he implored, blue eyes darting between the path ahead and Crowley's indifferent expression. "If things go well with Umbriel, then we'll have a real possibility to find others aligned to help us with our plight."

"You're going on about something that could be a few thousand years away, angel," Crowley said dismissively. "A lot can change in that time."

"I could also very well be talking about something that could happen tomorrow, for all we know," Aziraphale corrected. "I know you have your doubts, but her arrival was a turn up for the books. If Umbriel changes her mind about this whole thing, we'll be right back where we started."

Crowley didn't answer. Aziraphale shot the demon expectant glances as they continued down the sidewalk. The angel was losing all hope when his bookshop and Crowley's awaiting Bentley came into view.

"Just one afternoon?" Crowley suddenly asked, causing Aziraphale to flinch. Aziraphale sputtered in surprise before grasping for the luck he hoped wouldn't slip away.

"Yes!" the angel shouted, probably too loudly based on the irritated look Crowley made as he leaned away. "Just one afternoon! I'm sure you two will have a lovely time, then we can move forward with discussing the more, erm, _unpleasant _aspects of the prospective future."

"Right-o," Crowley said, no mirth behind the remark. The driver's side door to his Bentley swung open as he approached. The automobile may not have had the same trepidation toward its master as the demon's houseplants, but that wasn't to say that the echo of once being burned to a crisp under Crowley's care had faded away.

Crowley slid himself into the Bentley, the door swinging itself back shut. There was a knocking at his side, and Crowley regarded the smiling angel with a subdued expression as he rolled down the window.

"And do remember," Aziraphale said, beaming. "Be nice."

Crowley rolled the window up without a word. Aziraphale shot him a final smile before turning and pulling out his keys to unlock the front entrance to the bookshop. Crowley watched as the angel disappeared from view before bringing his focus to the steering wheel. He placed his hands on the wheel, drumming his fingers over the black leather.

"Be nice," Crowley whispered. The Bentley suddenly rumbled to life and his stereo lit up on the dash as Freddy Mercury's electric voice boomed in his ears.

'_We will, we will, rock you!'_

A grin slowly crept over the demon's face as the song's vibrations reverberated through his body. He cackled as the car shifted itself into gear.

"Oh yes," Crowley purred, turning the wheel and slamming his foot on the gas. "I can be _very _nice."


	3. Chapter 3

Dante's 'Inferno' is a pile of dog shit.

But please don't blame the poor man, since it's not really his fault. Dante was a very talented writer with wonderful imagery, although he was led to believe that the inner levels of Hell looked much, _much _different than the reality – his version had far more bogs of putrid slush and far fewer fax machines, for one.

On a day after some light foraging in the forested hills hugging the village (people didn't have a lot to do back then), Dante had been struck by inspiration. Inspiration caused by a rather questionable looking mushroom, but inspiration none-the-less. A visitor had also happened upon dear Dante during this time and joined the man on his psychedelic excursion because, as the visitor put it:

"This century is the absolute worst and since I can't die, I might as well spend it high as a kite."

As the two of them lay staring at the thatched-roof ceiling of Dante's modest home, shadows from the popping fire twisted and turned into vivid images as if by magic. Which _was_ actual magic, as it turned out, since the red-haired stranger now appeared to be losing some of his sensibilities as certain chemical reactions took place.

The visions warped between being the most beautiful and the most horrifying Dante had ever witnessed; tranquil forests of emerald green would wind and melt into pools of obsidian fire. Golden robes and shining horns blinded him with their unearthly magnificence as he could practically hear their joyous song and feel tasseled hems brush across his face.

But the golden cloth spilling from above would turn into rancid bile, and the horns' song into a thunderous crash like a ship being driven against an unyielding cliff face. It was at this point Dante exclaimed that he must be having visions of Hell.

After some thoughtful consideration, the visitor replied, "sure, why not?"

The visitor, who wore dark-colored lenses despite the low firelight, gave an in-depth description of every level of hell. His claims were accented by fits of giggles, but Dante didn't seem to notice; he was far too engrossed in the fine dance of flopping about the floor like a particularly determined walrus as he scribbled notes among stacks of curling scrolls. Every now and then, Dante would interrupt the stranger – who he kept referring to as Virgil, for some reason – and ask for elaborations.

"Centaurs? Of course there are centaurs in hell. Why _wouldn't _there be centaurs?"

"Oh no, it's a common misconception that it's blistering down in the last circle. It's a practical ice box with the AC turned up all the way; the bill is atrocious."

"Hey, hey! Shut it. New idea: '_Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate_: Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.' Shit that's good, right? Works for both the gates of Hell, and that whore house on the edge of the village.

…

Oh don't look at me like you haven't been."

After hours of notetaking, months of expanding, and a mountain of namedropping as many famous dead people that Dante was aware of (he was writing the first self-insert story, after all), Dante's 'Inferno' came to be. It has since become a literary classic bemoaned by high school literature students around the globe.

It is also the one and only piece of literature longer than a travel brochure that the demon Crowley had read from start to finish.

Years ago, Aziraphale had a worn copy of 'Inferno' laid out for restoration that Crowley had picked up on a whim while visiting over tea. Despite the itching feeling in the back of the angel's head that appeared when he spotted his old friend turning through the pages without gloves, he held his tongue and let the demon read the book without interruption (which for Aziraphale meant hovering in anticipation while occasionally topping of Crowley's tea). The angel had been hoping this would spark a love of literature within the demon, and the two of them could finally share in his avid hobby. But to Aziraphale's disappointment, 'Inferno' remained the one and only story to hold Crowley's attention for more than five minutes. Well, that and 'The Art of the Deal.'

…

But we don't talk about that.

Crowley couldn't even explain _why, _exactly, he found himself drawn to 'Inferno' in the first place. Something about the author's name caught his interest – 'Dante' pinged up an image of curly hair and a large nose, but everything beyond that was muddled. The 14th century was a long slog for the demon, and he was more than happy to forget as much about it as possible. However, he still found 'Inferno' rather amusing in its gross inaccuracies and even grosser imagery. And so, when the demon went looking for inspiration, this is where he began.

·◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊·

"What's the plan?" a whirlwind of cream and feathered hair exclaimed.

Crowley was bombarded with the inquiry the second his foot crossed over the threshold to the bookshop. It had been a few days since their previous conversation, and it seemed that the angel was more than a little relived that Crowley was actually coming through on his decision. If he were so inclined, Aziraphale would now have something in common to chat over with the band of mothers in the neighborhood who would feverishly try to force their children together because _'they would be such good friends if they simply stopped pushing each other off the seesaw.'_

One of the fretful children in this scenario had donned his usual attire of a well-tailored black jacket with a matching button-up shirt and dress pants. The smartly-dressed demon shrugged at Aziraphale's question, his enthusiasm level seemingly far below his companion's. "Oh you know, something simple," he drawled. "A stroll through park, dinner, a few drinks, blah blah blah."

"Oh how _lovely,_" Aziraphale said in earnest delight. "I'm sure that Umbriel will be keen on all of those things."

Crowley was saved the trouble of having to hide his expression as Umbriel appeared from the back of the shop. The voluminous mop of curly hair had returned with the top half tied up with a pink sequined scrunchie that shone like a disco ball in the various artificial light sources scattered among the shelves. The rest of Umbriel's ensemble consisted of a blue button-up shirt sporting shoulder cutouts, white-washed jeans shorts, and a pair of wedged shoes in leopard print. Her teeth stood out sharply between red lipstick as she flashed Aziraphale a smile. But the jovial expression was fleeting as her eyes landed on the demon. Crowley may as well have been her parole officer for all the mirth left in the Guardian. The demon met her gaze with a tilt of his head.

"And here I am without my feathered cap and cane," he remarked. Crowley's assumption that this would be yet another reference to fly right over the higher angel's head was proven wrong when a rush of air escaped his lungs as Aziraphale roughly elbowed him in the stomach.

"Oh, don't you look delightful!" Aziraphale said, taking Umbriel's hands in his own as he lifted her arms to admire the outfit. "How very creative. Who needs to have their shoulders covered anyway, hmm? The look was considered very fashionable in Italy some time ago, as I recall."

"Thank you, Mr. Aziraphale," Umbriel said, her warm expression returning. Aziraphale took a step back and the two angels regarded Crowley as he regained his composure. Both watched in hopeful delight, although for one of them it was in anticipation that the demon might now be sporting a fractured rib.

"Let's get the hell out of here before he discorporates me," Crowley mumbled. His slightly stooped figure opened the door; a black silhouette jarring against the warm, sunny afternoon spilling in. The demon made his exit without so much as a second glance at his less than enthusiastic date.

"You're perfectly safe, I assure you," Aziraphale said, gently patting Umbriel's shoulder. "Crowley may be many things, but he isn't the type to do more than fling insults. He can be a bit … _cheeky._"

Umbriel mouthed the word 'cheeky' as if she believed the description to be the biggest understatement she'd ever heard. Red lips fluttered with a scoff, Aziraphale watching the display in nervous excitement.

"I'm going to try, Mr. Aziraphale," Umbriel said, forcing a smile that was a few thousand years short of being believable. The grip on her shoulder grew more reassuring as blue eyes danced over her features. Aziraphale leaned in to whisper a final word of encouragement.

"Don't tell him I mentioned this, but Crowley is really quite courteous in nature once he warms up to a person. Just be yourself, and I'm sure that you'll soon find him to be fine company."

If only going by the dubious expression on his companion's face, Aziraphale may have just described his theory that all llamas secretly wore top hats when no one was watching.

An impatient honk from the Bentley caused the lesser angel to flinch. She shot Aziraphale a final reluctant glance before stepping away into the sunlight.

Aziraphale, either by choice or distraction, didn't react to the forlorn expression. Instead he positioned himself in the threshold with a glowing air and a bounce to his step. "Have a splendid time gallivanting, you two!" he exclaimed, waving joyfully a moment later as the car sped away.

**«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»**

**First Circle (Limbo)**

Crowley was a fan of Game of Thrones (the show, not the books, obviously). He liked the plotting, and the backstabbing, and watching people's heads continuously popping off like Champagne corks. He fancied the show so much, that he even felt a pang of remorse when he wormed his way into the writers' good graces and had them make some changes to the last season. That action created some worldwide discontent that lasted months, and even Hell couldn't help but to be impressed.

Getting back on topic – the rather simple matter comes down to the fact that Crowley is a huge fanboy who's always wanted an excuse to do some dastardly plotting while pacing through rows of meticulously cared for greenery. And so he found himself strolling next to Umbriel in the botanical gardens, his hands clasped behind his back as he admired the cascading vines clinging to the tall glass ceiling. Light shone off their dark, glossy leaves, creating shadows that led Crowley to envision the tangle of vines and hanging ferns creating a dense jungle reaching back for miles instead of the less impressive yard or two in reality.

Umbriel was simultaneously busy craning her neck to look around a gaggle of schoolchildren in order to admire the giant lily pads in the still, brown water to their left. She noted the filtration system was getting clogged, and that the caretaker Paul better get on that. Umbriel's capacity for thoughts beyond practical applications were not as creative as her companion's, to say the least.

"So," Crowley drawled, keeping his gaze fixed on the twisting vines.

This was the first word either of them had uttered since leaving the bookshop nearly an hour ago. To be honest, Umbriel was more than a little disappointed the demon had broken the silence. She had been doing her own plotting, which was going to involve hiding behind a rather large bromeliad in hopes that Crowley wouldn't notice she was missing.

Umbriel is not good at plotting.

"I trust you about as far as I can throw you," Crowley continued. He made a face, recalling that his strength was above average when compared to a human, and he might actually be able to toss Umbriel an impressive few yards. He eyed the dark, murky waters of the lily pad pond for a moment and tucked the information away.

"But for some reason that I can't comprehend – unless the angel has been colorblind this entire time – he seems to like you," Crowley continued. "So let's have a go at getting along, yeah?"

"Huh?" Umbriel said. The look on her face gave Crowley the momentary jolt of alarm that she may have picked up on his inner calculations concerning if he would be able to make her fly further with an underhanded toss or something over the shoulder like in that game from the Americas. The name was just on the tip of his tongue when Umbriel's exclamation withdrew him from his thoughts.

"You know – lets be chums," Crowley said. He held out his hand and did his best to put a pleasant expression on his face. Unfortunately, Crowley never had much use in the past for making his smiles seem nothing but innocent. Temptations normally involved a hint of danger, adventure, or promises that tickled certain desires. The slight curl to his lip gave this away, and the lesser angel regarded him in disdain.

"I will be cordial," Umbriel snapped, ignoring his outstretched hand. "You stated that you cannot understand why Mr. Aziraphale likes me, and I can tell you that I'm just as puzzled why he would like _you_."

The offered hand was quickly withdrawn.

"Football."

"What?" Umbriel said, the perplexed look making a reappearance.

"At least three yards, maybe more," Crowley said, dark lenses locked in her direction. Umbriel had no idea what he was going on about, but the demon's odd demeanor was quickly testing her patience.

"He was lonely," she said, coming to a stop. Crowley's canter continued on for a few more steps before halting – almost as if it was more to keep Umbriel in his sights while he continued to mull over something instead of a conscious reaction.

"He was lonely, so he entertained the idea of befriending you," Umbriel continued. "He didn't have anyone, so I … I can understand that. But he doesn't just have you anymore. He doesn't _have to_ have you. It would be better if he –"

Umbriel cut herself short. Between the midday sun and the heating, the greenhouse was practically sweltering. And yet Umbriel shivered, her eyes momentarily dancing about the enclosure before returning to Crowley. The demon was too preoccupied with being outraged to notice.

"So that's how it is," Crowley said, his voice sweet like honey. He didn't bother, now, trying to hide the predatory hint behind his smile. "Shame you'll have to tell the angel that you didn't even try to get to know me. Ah, well. Let's head back to the bookshop then, yeah?"

"No!" Umbriel answered quickly. Sweat beaded above her brow, her frantic nature once again being lost on her companion.

"I'll do it. Whatever it is. Please. I'm … I'm sorry about what I said before."

"Alright, feather duster," Crowley said, putting his hands in his pockets. He turned his back to her as his smile widened. He failed to spot the fuzzy silhouette of a figure standing outside the greenhouse, whom Umbriel glanced at nervously over her shoulder before catching up to him. Crowley spoke again as she reached his side.

"Let's have some fun."

**«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»**

**Second Circle (Lust)**

"She may be a new face around here folks, but I can assure you that she's got the goods to be one of the greats! Coming to the center stage, give our newbie a warm welcome! Here she comes! Say hello to Pooooooooooooomegranate!"

Glittered tassels sparkled in the warm spotlights as the lithe redhead made her way to center stage. Her nervous smile faltered as the cheering from the crowd died down and she was left regarding the impatient shadowed figures. Pomegranate reached her hand out for the pole, her stomach dropping as a sweaty palm slid over the cold metal. Music started to play, but she could barely register the sound over her labored breathing and hyper focus on the murmurs near the stage.

"Knock 'em dead, Pomegranate!" a voice called.

Pomegranate's heart leapt into her throat. The cadence of the shouted statement was _exactly _the same way her mother used to encourage her in softball practice more than a decade ago. She had been nervous then, too, but the encouragement always knocked her back to her senses and ready to wind back a curveball that would leave the other team gaping. Now was no different; Pomegranate's smile turning genuine as she firmly gripped the pole and swung her feet into the air. Cheers and whistles applauded her efforts, and she proceeded to dance out her routine without a hitch.

At a small table all the way in the back of the room – far outside of Pomegranate's sight – sat an angel and a demon. Said demon was staring at the angel in disbelief as his companion clapped cheerfully in support of Pomegranate's impressive move of wrapping one supple leg around the top of the pole and flawlessly sliding to the floor.

"Margret has been working on this routine for weeks," Umbriel said, momentarily pausing her ovation to take a sip of soda. "She'll be ready to teach classes soon. After she gets over her stage fright, of course. She's incredibly gifted but lacks confidence since her father always used to compare her to her sister, Lacie. The two girls get along fine now, though, so it all worked out in the end."

Crowley's head craned about as if he were looking for a hidden camera (or perhaps a deity) that was using him for its own sick amusement. He threw up his hands in resignation, inadvertently catching the attention of a waitress walking by.

"Would you like a refill, dear?" the waitress asked, false lashes fluttering as she smiled. The gentleman with red hair and sunglasses only buried his face in his hands as he rested his elbows on the table. After an awkward few seconds filled only with the sound of Pomegranate's routine music, the waitress was about to repeat her question when the man finally spoke in a dejected tone.

"No."

"I'll have another fizzy drink, please," Umbriel piped up pleasantly. The waitress nodded, grasping the glass and turning away. Umbriel went still for a moment before quickly rising from the table.

"Oh, wait!" she said, causing the waitress to look back. "I'll have … um … orange juice, actually. Thank you!"

"No problem, sweetie," the waitress said, her attention drifting away as the bartender called her over to pick up a tray of mixed drinks.

Umbriel sighed and returned to her seat. "Gary has a vexing personality, and he almost certainly won't tolerate being served a drink that's gone slightly warm. It wouldn't be her fault at all, but if Julia had gone straight to the soda guns then she would've missed Nathan waving. I don't want the poor thing to get the brunt end of Gary's tantrum."

Umbriel paused as a thought struck her. "I was actually talking to Mr. Aziraphale about Julia's mother, Helen, only a few weeks back now that I dwell on it. She has Parkinson's, but they found out soon enough to get her early treatment. Hopefully that will give her a few more years to spend with her children. I have a feeling that Jeffery and Angela will be getting married soon, so hopefully she'll be around long enough for grandchildren."

"Oi," Crowley mumbled, his voice muffled from between his fingers.

"What?"

"I don't care."

**«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»**

**Third Circle (Gluttony)**

"Hi, what can I get you?"

The girl in the red shirt and visor behind the counter made this statement with as much cheerfulness as a sixteen-year-old stuck at a minimum wage job during a beautiful day could muster. She couldn't help but to take notice of the dismay and confusion falling over the soft features of the curly-haired woman who had stepped up to the counter. Red lips pursed and her eyes fluttered over the glowing menu as if trying to decipher a tome written in an ancient language.

"Hello, Gale," the woman said, dropping her gaze (Gale's name tag had been forgotten that shift, but she hadn't yet realized the fact). "I'm… not sure. What would you recommend?"

Gale, having never encountered this question, regarded the customer with a dubious look before raising her finger to touch the tablet attached to the register.

"Number three, I guess?" the girl said. The woman with sparkling green eyes beamed, looking far too delighted by the suggestion.

"I'll have that then, Gale. You seem like the kind of girl who's good with recommendations. And math, very good at math."

Gale's gaze drifted to the man leaning against the checkered red and white counter. His appearance was less jarring than his companion's, but Gale couldn't help but to wonder if he was just as unhinged.

"Nothing for me, thanks," the man said, to Gale's relief.

As Umbriel waited for her order, Crowley took the opportunity to saunter out of the brightly lit burger chain to sit at one of the decrepit cement tables donning a crooked red and white umbrella. The restaurant was nearly deserted, most people with any sort of standards vying for more appetizing lunch options in inner city London. He sat with his head leaning into his hand, staring into space and enjoying the smell of car fumes being let off from the nearby roadway. Most humans found it particularly unpleasant, which made it just perfect for his taste.

After a few minutes of listening to the hum of passing cars, Crowley's attention shifted as Umbriel sat down across from him with a cherry red tray in hand. The second the tray hit the table, Crowley reached out to snatch french fries from the warm paper bag and cram them in his mouth.

"I thought you didn't want anything?" Umbriel said, pulling the paper wrapping away from a depressed looking burger.

"An easy mistake," Crowley said, now reaching for her milkshake. "I prefer to say I don't want anything, then get by on poaching food instead."

Umbriel looked at him with an expression that seemed to indicate she couldn't decide on whether that was the rudest or the most pathetic thing she had ever heard. Crowley rather liked the expression; it was certainly a step up from the nauseating smile she wore whenever addressing humans.

Umbriel took a deep breath, letting the matter with the french fries go as she dropped her gaze back to the burger. She tentatively raised it to her face and regarded the sandwich as if it might turn on her at any moment.

"Go on, feather duster," Crowley said, dipping a fry into the chocolate shake. "This place has billions of customers served every year. What, are you going to turn up your nose at something _billions _of humans find appetizing? That would be rather presumptuous of you, wouldn't it?"

What Crowley failed to mention was that Umbriel's newest subject of admiration, Aziraphale, had done just that to more food establishments than there were stars in the night sky.

The higher angel staunchly refused to allow anything to enter his digestive system that didn't live up to his scrutiny of being the highest quality. Crowley had once witnessed an entire slice of pie reappear on Aziraphale's plate when the angel detected that the pastry chef has used _imitation vanilla _in a pinch instead of the real thing. The habit was one of the more utterly ridiculous things about the angel, and Crowley was banking on the fact that it was a trait that was shared among kin.

The demon watched expectantly as Umbriel took a tentative bite. The angel gagged, bringing a manicured hand up to cover her mouth.

"A lot of blood, sweat, and tears went into that … _food_, you know," Crowley said, lazily waving a fry about. "It would be a complete waste of all those poor souls' efforts for you to not at least try and enjoy it."

Umbriel nodded, tears forming at the edge of her eyes as she chewed. Crowley had to use every ounce of his willpower to hold back the grin threatening to break across his face. He continued to watch in delight as Umbriel slowly ate what appeared to be a triple-decker burger with some sort of pink sauce forming a gelatinous puddle as it dripped onto the paper. The angel was looking positively green a few minutes later as she finally finished the mound of cholesterol on a toasted bun.

"Don't forget the shake!" Crowley chirped, sliding the cup in her direction. The treat had nearly melted entirely, Umbriel warily eyeing the remaining lump of frozen dessert as it jiggled in the center of the cup. Crowley rested his chin on his fingers, smiling cheerfully from across the table.

"I …" Umbriel said, trailing off. "I'm not sure if I should …"

"Not feeling well?" Crowley asked, tilting his head. "Is all becoming too much when you're actually asked to live like the humans do, feather duster?"

Umbriel's expression darkened from the insult. "I think _I _would know how humans live, thank you," she said with as much force as she could muster in her state.

"And how many of those humans _completely adore _this food?" Crowley said, his smile growing sinister. "_Billions, _I'd reckon."

"That number is how many orders served," Umbriel corrected. "Not how many–"

"Oh, no. No need to explain," Crowley said, holding up his palms. "You're simply above this sort of thing, yeah?"

"I … I'm not …" Umbriel said, her cheeks turning red. She took a deep breath, suddenly grasping the cup. Crowley half expected her to throw it in his face before she tilted back her head and chugged the remaining brown liquid. Umbriel slammed the cup down, tears now freely streaming down her face.

"I'm … I'm finished," she stated. Umbriel rose from her seat and dutifully began to collect their trash. Crowley regarded her in silence as she headed for the bins. There was a slight wobble to her step which caused a momentary stab of guilt in Crowley's gut before he pushed the sensation away.

"She's an angel," Crowley muttered to himself. "The second she isn't feeling well, she can just–"

It was at that moment Crowley discovered that despite previous late-night musings between himself and Aziraphale, the latter of which staunchly arguing that it could _never _happen, angels were in fact more than capable of vomiting. It was also worth noting that their vomit, at least in Umbriel's case, was neon purple. The demon sat transfixed, watching the violet waterfall churn into a sparkling puddle before oozing into the cracks of the sidewalk.

An alarmed shout came from somewhere inside the restaurant. Judging by the pitch, it was probably Gale.

"Hmm, well. That's a thing," Crowley said. He shot out of his seat and hurriedly made his way back to the car before garnering any attention.

**«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»**

**Fourth Circle (Greed)**

"You're _absolutely certain _that you don't want me to take you back to the bookshop?"

"Yes," Umbriel said, stepping out of the car. "I'm feeling fine now."

"You better be," Crowley said, the Bentley's door swinging closed behind him. The sun was starting to set, bathing the wide parking lot in an orange glow.

"If I have to use my power later to get whatever that purple shit is out of my upholstery, you're getting plucked."

"I assure you that won't be an issue," Umbriel said curtly. They stepped up to the single-story brick building, and Crowley let out a skeptical grunt as he pressed his palm against the wooden door accented with stained glass.

Music, laughter, and the genial hum of a less-than-sober crowd hit their ears as they entered the hall. The gleaming cream walls were largely bare, the hardwood floors accented by groups of well-dressed people milling about with drinks in hand as they chatted among themselves. At the center of the large, warmly-lit building was a wide dance floor that sported a number of humans who twirled about as the swing music struck up an exciting tempo.

An eye-catching banner reading "Happy 50th Maurice and Trish!" stretched above a well picked-over buffet table at the end of the hall. Crowley had no idea who Maurice and Trish were, but he had enough experience with humans and their various tendencies to know that they would believe just about anything the moment alcohol hit their system. Faking being a third cousin twice-removed was practically child's play, at this point.

"Ah, the art of dance. A cherished human pastime for centuries," Crowley said. He reached out to snatch a martini from the tray of a distracted waiter. He took a sip from the wide-brimmed glass as he glanced at Umbriel. As expected, she looked rather deflated as she watched the display.

"Why so glum, feather duster?" Crowley asked, feigning ignorance. He waited patiently as Umbriel nervously rubbed her elbows.

"I can't really dance for myself," Umbriel said, seemingly embarrassed.

It was clear Umbriel hadn't picked up on the fact that Crowley was more than aware dancing was an activity so far detached from an angel's duties that adapting it was nigh impossible.

Aziraphale had once been able to pick up a single style called the "gavotte" which, unfortunately for the angel, had long since gone out of fashion. Crowley was distinctly savvy of not only how much this fact vexed Aziraphale, but also the level of longing the ethereal being seemed to convey whenever he watched humans make any type of dancing display. The transfixed, hungry look in Aziraphale's eyes was reflected now in the lesser angel as she watched the human's spin about. For the second time in the past few hours, Crowley had to push aside a twang of guilt.

The swing dance came to an end, those on the dance floor catching their breath as they laughed and applauded the band. A few seconds passed as the band members turned through their music books before they started up again with a slow tango.

"Alright, well," Crowley said, setting his empty glass down in the most convenient available space (a potted plant, in this case). "You seem rather put out and all, so let's he–"

"Do you know it? The tango, I mean."

Crowley's brows raised over his lenses at the older gentleman who appeared before Umbriel. The man's thin mustache stretched above his mouth as he gently smiled down at her.

"Yes, I'm familiar with it," Umbriel replied curtly. The man chuckled, nodding his head.

"I thought so. You're watching so intently you reminded me of the instructors at the academy. Would you like to join me?"

Umbriel's mouth stretched into a thin line. "I … I don't really …"

"Oi, oi! Get out there and have some fun, yeah?" Crowley said, slapping Umbriel across the back. "No harm in giving an old creep a dance, right?"

Umbriel's eyes went wide and she swiftly steered the man away before Crowley could cause a scene. The demon's posture slid into a casual slouch as he smirked. He had been more than content to call the night off then and there, but having Umbriel utterly embarrass herself would be the perfect complement to her already crumbling confidence.

Crowley snaked through the crowd until he had a decent view of Umbriel and the older gentleman as they found an open area toward the other end of the hall. Umbriel placed one hand on the man's arm and another in his waiting palm as her dance partner gently laid his free hand at the side of her waist. The pair paused as the man leaned close to speak into Umbriel's ear.

"Oi," Crowley said, elbowing a random bystander. "Check this out; it's going to be something spectacular."

The older gentleman suddenly swept about in a circle, Umbriel following his lead and dragging her leg in a low arc across the floor before the man spun her about. The Guardian took a step back, her arms raised as she kept her attention locked on her partner. She offered her right hand to the gentleman, who grasped it and slowly leaned in to shrink the distance between them before his hand was again on her waist and Umbriel took a high step to the side before mirroring his movements. The pair floated across the floor in perfect sync as they moved about the other dancers in a fluid fashion.

"Oh wow, you're spot on," said the woman who had been the target of Crowley's now defunct attempt at sarcasm. "They're really good. I think that's the Argentinian tango."

Crowley didn't hear a word, only gaping in amazement at how much the universe appeared to hate him. Well, he was a demon; so it wasn't a surprise but he still didn't have to enjoy it.

After what felt like an endless string of high kicks, spins, and lifts, the song came to an end and Umbriel and the man stepped apart. The man bent down to place a chaste kiss on the back of Umbriel's hand before she backed away. A beaming smile was gifted to onlookers who complimented Umbriel on her dancing, but the Guardian didn't linger as she headed for the door. Crowley watched her with genuine interest as she disappeared into the fading light.

It took Crowley a few seconds of searching through the parking lot when he didn't immediately find Umbriel standing near the Bentley. Instead, he found her hiding in the long shadows stretching along the edge of the squat brick building. Umbriel had her head in her hands, but it did little to hide her heaving sobs.

"Huh."

Crowley turned about and made a straight shot for the car. Whatever this was, he was more than content to wait it out until the Guardian was finished.

Almost on their own, Crowley's feet slowed to a stop. He lifted his head to regard the cotton candy clouds as his lips pulled back into a snarl.

"No, no, no, _no!" _he hissed through clenched teeth. If Crowley had been looking to the clouds to talk him out of what his conscious was prodding him to do, he was out of luck.

Crowley stomped his foot in irritation as he looked back over the scattered cars. He regarded the building with a disgusted look for a moment before finally stalking back the way he came. Snake-skin shoes stepped off the asphalt and into the damp grass, pausing for a moment before finally rounding the corner.

Umbriel had stopped crying, thankfully. A tan and blue tartan handkerchief had been produced from somewhere and was now being used to dab at the dark blobs of mascara settling at the corners of her eyes.

"Alright, so, you're a liar," Crowley said, crossing his arms as he leaned against the building. He stared off into space as he waited for Umbriel to reply.

"I didn't lie," Umbriel said softly.

Crowley let out a mirthless chuckle. "And I'm the bloody Pope."

Umbriel huffed as she delicately folded the pocket square. She clutched the material between her fingers, running her thumb over the cloth in a nervous fashion.

"I can't dance for myself," she said, staring at the material. "That was information I had picked up from tapping into human memories. When I do that … I'm not myself."

"Who cares," Crowley said, turning his head. "Copying information from others is just _learning, _if you haven't picked that up over the millennia."

Malice flashed behind her eyes as Umbriel regarded the demon. "It's not like it at all! When I do something like that, it's like everything about me except for the task I'm doing shuts down. I don't … I don't _feel _anything when it happens. I may as well not really be there."

Crowley groaned, rolling his head back on his shoulders. "Am I seriously stuck with a _Guardian _having an existential crisis in the bloody parking lot of a run-down dance hall? At least have the decency to warn me first so I can nick some alcohol from the kitchen and get smashed in the Bentley while your whole," Crowley waved in Umbriel's direction, "_thing _blows over."

Umbriel sniffled, bringing the pocket square to her face. She closed her eyes, taking deep breaths through the material. Crowley let out an exaggerated sigh.

"You're overthinking it," he said, peering into the shadows of the trees surrounding the parking lot. "At the end of the day you're still you, and as long as you can live with that, it's all that matters."

Umbriel slowly lowered the handkerchief from her face. She seemed to struggle with something for a moment before speaking.

"It's just … a very hard sensation to get used to; being ripped away from yourself."

"Join the club," Crowley snapped. It took Umbriel a moment to contemplate the statement, her eyebrows rising as a thought struck her.

"Was that … was that what it was like to ...?_"_

"Doesn't matter," Crowley replied dismissively. "It's something about myself I can't change. Just like you with your creepy mind thing and horrible taste in fashion."

Umbriel scoffed, although some of the life returned behind her gaze. "I like my clothes, thank you. There's nothing wrong in wanting to dress in color."

"Only if you're trying to attract some sort of tropical bird," Crowley said. "Which, judging by the nest-like state of your hair, can't be too far off."

Umbriel unconsciously reached up to grab a handful of her curls. She pulled her hand away and rolled her eyes. "Isn't that the pot calling the kettle black?"

Crowley's head slowly turned in her direction. His hand drifted toward his face as if to grip the frames of his glasses, but he second guessed himself and settled for keeping his gob smacked expression partially hidden. The demon shook his head to regain his composure.

"This," Crowley said, indicating himself. "You think _this _is terrible fashion sense?! I thought you were just dim but now I'm beginning to think that there's a much deeper issue."

To his surprise, Umbriel snorted. Crowley threw his arms up in irritation as Umbriel's mirth died down.

"You're actually like Mr. Aziraphale, a little bit," Umbriel said.

It was an offhand observation that left the demon struck dumb. The significance of the statement was completely lost on the lesser angel as she mistook Crowley's silence for an invitation to elaborate on his clothing.

"And it's not what you wear, exactly. It's _how _you wear it."

Crowley's head was still slowly trying to untangle itself from the bafflingly odd sensation of inadvertently being offered the highest praise he could imagine.

"Wah?"

"How you _move," _Umbriel said, a hint of annoyance touching her voice. This snapped Crowley out of his daze, an eyebrow lifting above his lenses.

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Err … like this," Umbriel said. Her wedged shoes caused her make an awkward motion halfway between a skip and a jog as she moved through the grass to put some distance between herself and Crowley. She turned around and placed her hands at her side as she began a much slower walk back. Umbriel pushed her hips out in an exaggerated side-to-side motion with every step.

"It's like your underthings have traveled halfway up your anus and you're trying to work them out," she said as she came to a stop.

Crowley regarded her in stunned silence. He shook his head as if he had just been slapped before finding his voice.

"Anus?"

"That's what it's called," Umbriel said, wondering why _that _was the subject the demon decided to dwell on.

"I don't give two shits about '_what it's called_,'" Crowley said in a mocking tone. "Just say asshole or shitter like everyone else."

Umbriel shrugged in resignation. "Alright," she said. "Then why do you walk like your–"

"I DO NOT WALK LIKE THERE'S SOMETHING HALF UP MY ASS!" Crowley exclaimed. There was a muffled exchange followed by a few bouts of laughter from somewhere in the parking lot. Umbriel couldn't hold back a snort as she regarded the combination of Crowley's bunched eyebrows and expanded nostrils.

"Have you," Umbriel said, struggling to compose herself, "have you seen yourself walk?"

Crowley took a step forward, towering over her. Part of the Guardian knew that she should by all rights be terrified, but no matter what she did she couldn't seem to remove the smile stuck to her face.

"Are you insulting me?" Crowley said, his voice stern. Umbriel shook her head, matted curls bouncing.

"It's just an observation," she said quickly.

"You're seriously toeing the line between insult and observation, feather duster," Crowley said, backing away. He cocked his head to the side for a moment before turning his back to her. "It's amateur work for a par, but a step above terrible."

Crowley rounded the corner, disappearing from sight. Umbriel looked down to regard the crumpled handkerchief still nestled between her fingers. She lovingly ran a thumb over the material before returning it to her front pocket and following after the demon.

**«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»**

**Fifth Circle (Wrath)**

Crowley had seriously considered cutting his losses and leaving Umbriel behind at the dance hall, but he had made the critical mistake of being anything less than awful and now he risked her opinion of him improving. He simply couldn't have that.

"What do you think of the music?"

'_Liar! You're Lying to me!'_

"What?!"

'_Liar! You're lying to me!'_

"This song just popped up and it reminded me of you," Crowley continued, his gaze leaving the road as he glanced to the passenger seat. "You know, due to the whole thing with you being a backstabbing spy and all that."

"The sun just coughed up and reprimanded you for being a malpracticing pie and all matte?" Umbriel shouted, her eyes simultaneously trying to read Crowley's lips despite being pulled away by the distressing blurs of vehicles they sailed past on the long stretch of road.

"Sorry, is the music a bit much?" Crowley said, cranking up the volume. "Loud things bother your lot, don't they?"

'_Liar! Liar! Liar! Liar!_

_Liar that's what they keep calling me!'_

A lull in oncoming traffic allowed Umbriel to properly regard Crowley's lip flaps.

"No, that's just Mr. Aziraphale," Umbriel said, fighting the losing battle for the dominance of Crowley's eardrums against Freddy Mercury.

"Oh, you're going to run crying to the angel, huh?" Crowley replied with a superior smirk.

Let's make something clear – being thousands of years old doesn't excuse anyone from acting dimwitted. Crowley forgetting that he can simply use his power to dampen the effect of the music on himself so that he could properly hear Umbriel is one such example.

"Oh no, I'm done crying," Umbriel said, shifting self-consciously in her seat. "But I guess it's … err… _not terrible _of you to be concerned. Thank you."

Umbriel's attention was caught by the looming semi-truck getting closer as Crowley drifted into the oncoming lane. She was too busy praying that she wasn't about to get flattened like a pancake for her to see Crowley's reply.

"Oh yeah?!" Crowley shouted, jerking the wheel to the side as a blaring horn filled their ears. "Fuck you too, feather duster! I'm glad we're both on the same – goddamnit – same thing …"

'_Liar! Liar! They never ever let you win_

_Liar! Liar! everything you do is sin …'_

Umbriel placed a hand on her chest, exhaling in relief over not having to deal with the queuing system involved with getting a new corporal form. She looked back to Crowley, being vaguely aware that he had been speaking.

"Would you mind slowing down?"

"Page!" Crowley shouted, pointing at her in triumph. He cackled, giddy over the perceived victory as his companion questioned his mental capacities.

**«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»**

**Sixth Circle (Heresy)**

For a reason that the demon chalked up to being an intense step up in the mind game category, Umbriel's demeanor had been perfectly composed as they were nearing the bookshop. Crowley had made a quick detour after noting that his job wasn't finished. The next play was risky, but would certainly have a good payoff if it came through.

"Put your shoes wherever," Crowley said, waving about the entryway as he stepped through the threshold. The downstairs lights in the open plan two-story apartment automatically flicked on, although the lighting was still so dim Umbriel had to squint until her eyes adjusted.

"Why is your home so big?" Umbriel asked, looking about.

The apartment took up two full stories in the high-rise complex in downtown London. The bare, grey walls and floor-to-ceiling glass windows that ran along the entirety of the apartment's southern and westerns ends reflected the soft light of the bulbs hanging from the ceiling. A black U-shaped sofa that could seat at least a dozen faced the west wall where a 60" television was mounted above a sleek black cabinet.

Umbriel's gaze drifted over the other modest pieces of dark-colored furniture and the gleaming fixtures of the large kitchen. As nice as everything appeared, the place itself felt hollow. It was like she was standing in a set piece instead of the heart of a residence that anyone would call their home. It was the exact opposite of Aziraphale's bookshop, which emitted a comforting feeling akin to being wrapped in a warm blanket upon stepping through the threshold.

"Haven't you ever heard of a 'carbon footprint', feather duster?" Crowley asked, his back still to the Guardian as he entered the kitchen.

"Of course," Umbriel said. "But an apartment of this size must use up quite a lot of energy."

"Exactly," Crowley said, opening the door to the fridge (this was a lie. Crowley's apartment was actually quite energy efficient in the sense that it didn't use any. Not the kind one could gather from Earthly sources, anyway).

The closest thing to food the large, gleaming appliance before Crowley sported were the fruit juices used to mix various cocktails. The rest of the space was filled to the brim with almost every alcohol variety imaginable. Umbriel would also be able to see that the cabinets were the same, if her host had been so inclined to show her.

"Pick your poison, feather duster," Crowley said, his brow furrowing as he yanked a bottle of merlot from the fridge and studied its label.

"Um … I'm not really _inclined _to drinking alcohol," Umbriel said nervously. The whole truth was that she wasn't inclined to _Aziraphale's _form of alcohol consumption and the unpleasant activity of putting it all back that followed.

"Oh, right. I'm sure you've had a few with the angel by now," Crowley said. He pulled two wine glasses from a hanging rack above the vast kitchen island. "I don't do that bloody thing with taking it back; leaves an awful taste in my mouth and it takes out most the fun."

Crowley exited the kitchen with the now two full glasses of merlot in hand. He held one out to Umbriel, who accepted it with some hesitation.

"To good friends," Crowley said, flashing a cheesy smile.

Umbriel regarded Crowley with some trepidation, seemingly not taken with his uncharacteristic gesture. When it appeared that he wasn't going to back down, though, she lifted her glass to meet the demon's with a soft 'clink.'

**«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»**

Crowley's plan of attack was simple; it was a method he had used for millennia and had a higher rate of success in causing general mischief than any other dastardly plot in his arsenal. His peers used to applaud him for his results; he was even rewarded a commendation for being the inventor of the technique (hey, no one else was taking credit for it).

In all honesty, it was the humans who did most of the work after a certain point – all he ever needed to do was give them a bit of a nudge in the wrong direction. There was a hint of uncertainty considering that his current target wasn't exactly human, but Crowley had been doing this for long enough to hopefully make up for the gap using experience.

"Oh, noooooo, he didn't," Crowley said, reaching for the nearly empty bottle of sherry sitting on the small coffee table adjacent to where they lounged on the couch. Umbriel snorted, covering her mouth with one hand as she held out her empty glass with the other.

"He did!" she exclaimed. Crowley frowned as he struggled to pour the alcohol around Umbriel's unsteady grasp.

"He had me alphabetize them," Umbriel continued, "The _entire _collection! And then decided that he liked it better the way it was! I took me five days to get it back to how Mr. Aziraphale wanted because for the life of me I couldn't recall the order all the books were in before!"

Crowley let out a forced chuckle. "My, my – that was a positively exhilarating story that was not appallingly boring in the least."

"Thank you!" Umbriel said, bringing the glass to her lips. The sunglasses hid a good part of Crowley's incredulous look, although the Guardian was so smashed, she probably wouldn't have been able to tell otherwise.

Deciding that the time was right, Crowley leapt into action.

"I've been thinking about what you did earlier at the strip– err, _dance performance," _Crowley said, his voice taking on a soothing tone. "Those trippy powers of yours from being a Guardian must have led you to do some interesting things, I take it."

Umbriel waved her free hand as she laughed. "Oh of course!" she said. "There was this one time where I had to roll my pants up to climb into a fountain – one of those big ones in a park – and I had to collect all of the change because–"

"Don't care," Crowley cut in. "Were there any times you ever had to do anything … you know … less than moral?"

"Oh," Umbriel said, her brow furrowing. She kept her thoughtful expression as she took another sip of sherry. A dribble of the drink escaped the corner of her mouth as she pulled the glass away, and Crowley watched with a repulsed expression as she wiped the alcohol – and a fair amount of red lipstick – across her cheek with the back of her wrist.

"I avoid it as much as I can, but I do have to do things like that, sometimes," she said, looking over the skyline through the windows behind Crowley. "I've framed a few humans for shoplifting so they can be arrested and have to address certain issues. That only works in the countries that have decent criminal rehabilitation processes, though."

"Uh huh," Crowley said, leaning his head into his hand. "I already knew that you were capable of sinning because of the lying and all, but I was curious if that was as far as it went."

"I don't lie," Umbriel said, taking another drink of sherry. She lowered the glass to regard it with a frown. "Much."

"I always wondered what it must feel like to you angels when you do something immoral," Crowley said, watching Umbriel steadily. "When a demon does anything virtuous, it feels like a bloody kick to the head."

That was a lie, but Umbriel didn't need to know that.

"It hurts," Umbriel said. She patted her fingers on her chest as she regarded Crowley. "Right here. It hurts."

"I see," Crowley said. He leaned forward, the leather couch squeaking in protest beneath him as if it knew where this was headed. "And it still feels that way when no one gets hurt, does it?"

Umbriel blinked in rapid succession as her inhibited wits tried to make sense of Crowley's statement.

"But someone _always _get hurt," Umbriel countered.

"No, feather duster, that's where you're wrong."

A devilish smile inched up Crowley's face. "You see, by your own logic, committing sins may very well be a benefit to society. Take the convenience shop down the road, for example. It would be _atrocious _if someone were to let loose a colony of voles in there, yes?"

Umbriel nodded wholeheartedly in agreement. She froze, her lips puckering.

"Voles?"

"But!" Crowley said, plowing on. "What if the owner of that shop has a hefty insurance policy that will give him more than enough for a cushy retirement? He could spend the rest of his days traveling along the French Riviera while fucking his lovely wife and going jet skiing instead of working himself to an early grave behind a counter. So in fact, that one teensy weensy little destruction of property would only make that man's life so much happier, wouldn't it?"

Umbriel swayed in her seat. Her focus shifted between Crowley and the empty space behind him in a way that seemingly left her disoriented.

"I– I don't … I'm not sure," she finally said. "The owner's name is Michael, I think? Wait. It might be Michelle, actually. And she–"

"Would be so, _so _very grateful for you to help her," Crowley quickly interjected.

Umbriel looked down, staring at her hand as if it were the first time seeing the appendage.

"Do … do insurance companies cover _voles?"_

"It's the highest payout," Crowley said matter-of-factly. "They'd be millionaires overnight."

He would ensure that was what it said on the paperwork later, in any case.

Shaking fingers placed the wine glass down on the adjacent coffee table with a soft clink. Something sharp was crawling out from behind the Guardian's gaze, and Crowley both literally and figuratively grasped at his opportunity before letting it slip away.

Crowley reached out to take Umbriel's hand, her attention snapping back to him.

"It's just a _touch_ of infestation," he cooed. "The shop long since closed, and we can make sure nothing else around it gets voled. I can promise you, you'll feel like a million bucks when you see the look on Michelle's face in the morning as she watches all those little payloads skittering about."

Crowley didn't know it, but he had inadvertently shot himself in the foot through the unconscious act of taking Umbriel's hand.

Guardian angels are incapable of picking up the inner thoughts and feelings of other beings of supernatural nature … most of the time; the exception being when they were making skin-on-skin contact. It was a predicament that rarely came into play since the chances of two angels having the requirement of touching one another while in corporal form was exceedingly low. The chances of a Guardian angel being in physical contact with a demon was even lower. Unbeknownst to the pair, it was the first time in all of history that it had happened.

"Gack!"

Crowley cried out, leaping back as a sensation as if he had just stuck his finger into an electrical socket seared up and down his arm. He shook out his hand, cursing to himself as he regarded the limp appendage.

Movement out of the corner of his eye caused Crowley to look over as Umbriel rose from the couch. She appeared to study him as if his image were blurry and she couldn't quite get him into focus. Despite the alcohol, Crowley got the feeling the look had nothing to do with her inhibited state.

"I don't understand," Umbriel said, taking a step forward.

"Oi, Oi!" Crowley exclaimed, backing away. "I didn't come prepared for powers. The angel warned me about _'delicate sensibilities,' _but not anything of any real importance!"

The last thing Crowley wanted was a physical fight. Well, he had been all for it up to a few seconds ago, actually. But that was back when he was certain the he could take the angel down with little effort. It wasn't that Crowley _couldn't _stand his own against Umbriel, but his supply for new corporal forms had … _dried up, _so to speak. And now he had no idea what the Guardian was capable of, which was a distressing predicament to be in.

Umbriel continued to approach at a steady pace. Crowley's rear hit the kitchen island, and he reached around him for any sort of weapon. Unfortunately for him, his kitchen was utterly devoid of anything useful for this situation within easy reach, and so Crowley had to settle for a wine glass from the overhanging rack. He brandished it at Umbriel, recalled how stupid that was, then flipped it up with a forced grin.

"Refill?"

Umbriel stopped before him. She tilted her head like a dog perking an ear trying to decipher if the crinkling of plastic they just heard was a bag of treats.

"You don't act in a way that will get you what you want," Umbriel said. "And I would never have guessed _that's _what you want."

Crowley frowned. When it became clear that the Guardian wasn't looking for a fight, he lowered the glass.

The demon cleared his throat, fighting to regain his relaxed persona. "Look, that whole thing with the voles was just me having a laugh; no need to mention that to the angel. And in return, I won't tell him that you tried to electrocute me. Fair deal, in my opinion."

Umbriel didn't appear to be listening. "Very odd," she said.

Crowley nearly ducked as Umbriel reached both of her hands out to the side of his face. Sheer panic nearly caused him to play his trump card and stop time itself, but the idea slid away as Umbriel's hands settled on cold metal.

Rounded sunglasses were gently slid off the demon's nose. The angel gingerly folded the glasses and held them at her side. Umbriel proceeded to watch him, unmoving. Serpentine eyes remained fixed on the angel for almost a minute before dilating in distress.

"Stop it."

Umbriel didn't move. She had even stopped blinking.

Hands slid over marble counter tops as Crowley edged along the side of the kitchen island. Umbriel didn't follow, but still turned her head to follow his path as he circled back to the living room. The demon was walking backwards, and he tripped slightly over the edge of a black rug. The decoration was kicked with enough ferocity as if it were the true object of his scorn.

"What the hell are you looking at?!" Crowley shouted accusingly (he was talking to the angel, not the rug, in case there was any confusion).

Umbriel turned slightly to face him head-on. "You," she said matter-of-factly. "I thought that was the point."

"Cut it out!" the demon snapped. Umbriel didn't head the warning.

Crowley broke their gaze, yellow eyes frantically dancing over his surroundings. He let out a pleased grunt as he reached over to snatch something from a nearby shelf. The green object clutched in his grasp seemingly bestowed Crowley with a newfound courage. The item was held reverently before him as he stalked toward his target.

"Drop it!"

Crowley squeezed the trigger, blasting Umbriel in the face with filtered water from the mister. Umbriel sputtered, shaking her head.

"I said, drop it!" Crowley repeated, bending over to keep Umbriel's face in his sights as he repeatedly squeezed the handle.

Umbriel's reply was turned into a hacking cough as water shot up her nose. She dashed into the kitchen to hide behind the island, but Crowley leapt onto the counter top to circumvent her escape. Umbriel scrambled to the left.

'Squirt! Squirt! Squirt!'

Umbriel scrambled to the right, her feet sliding over the wet tile.

'Squirt! Squirt! Squirt!'

She flung open the cabinet under the sink and was about to grace the red bucket and sink plunger with an uninvited visit when Crowley spoke.

"Hold on."

Umbriel froze halfway into the cabinet, looking up at him owlishly as the demon slid himself off the counter. Crowley reached out a hand, and Umbriel lifted her own to accept the offer. But Crowley kept moving, and soon there was the sound of running water. Umbriel frowned, unable to see what he was doing from her angle.

"There we go," Crowley said, coming back into full view as he twisted on the head of the mister. He pointed it at her, squeezing the handle with full force.

"Why?!" Umbriel cried. She shot out of the kitchen, finally tossing the glasses aside.

"You stole my bloody glasses, you prick!" Crowley shouted.

"I didn't steal them!" Umbriel said, wiping the water from her eyes.

"If anyone between us knows a thing or two about the definition of 'stealing,'" Crowley spat. "I think it would be me!"

"But I didn't!" Umbriel implored.

"Did so!"

Its worth noting that the entire debacle was quickly dissolving into little more than a schoolyard scrap between third-graders.

"I was just holding them while I gave you what you wanted!" Umbriel countered.

"What is Satan's name are you talking about?" Crowley said, keeping a trained finger on the trigger of the mister while he bent over for the glasses.

"I could feel that it was the thing you wanted," Umbriel said, droplets flinging about as she shook out her hair. "You are ... you must be really conceited to get off on just wanting to be looked at!"

"W-what?!" Crowley said, freezing midway to the glasses. He abandoned the object entirely as he wheeled on Umbriel with new fervor. Umbriel squeaked as she was once again squirted with cold water.

"What the bloody hell are you going on about?! I never asked you to do a goddammed thing you useless, air-headed, cocked up excuse for a celestial entity!"

"I thought I was helping!" Umbriel cried. She skittered away toward the door, Crowley following with his unceasing assault.

"You're not getting a ride!" Crowley spat as Umbriel put on her shoes. Umbriel didn't respond, keeping her head lowered to protect herself from the torrent of water as she fastened the leopard-print straps.

Umbriel was on her feet in a flash, straining against the large, metallic doors to ease them open. Crowley paused the spraying to assist her, but in a way that came across as less than chivalrous as he high-kicked the door with a loud 'bang.' This was followed up by the demon placing his hand at the square of Umbriel's back and shoving her out the door. Umbriel turned to regard him with a final shocked expression which resulted in another spray of mist to her face. Her gasping was drowned out by the scrapping noise of the door slamming shut.

"'_I thought I was helping,'" _Crowley said in a high-pitched, mocking tone as he turned from the door. He slammed the nearly empty mister down on the counter top. Yellow eyes surveyed the room for a moment as if he suspected that he was still under the scrutiny of an unblinking gaze. After taking a minute to thoroughly scowl at each and every piece of furniture, Crowley finally crossed the room and made a move to put on his glasses. As a he flicked them open, he hesitated, regarding the shining black glass accented with water droplets.

"_Looking _at me," the demon muttered. He cleaned his glasses on the hem of his jacket before sliding them back on. The world became a familiar pallet of muted shades and the demon went about his business. He didn't _have _to clean; Crowley had a cleaning lady to account for his general laziness. But sometimes a person just gets a certain satisfaction out of doing things themselves.

Arms laden with empty bottles and dirty glasses, the sliding door to the open-air balcony flung open and Crowley stepped out into the night. His hair billowed in the damp wind and he took a deep breath of the stifling smell of asphalt and smoke exhaust. With a satisfied hum, he heaved the trash over the side of the balcony. Crowley drummed his fingers on the railing and stared over the rooftops as he waited.

The sudden sound of glass shattering followed by a distressed car alarm cut through the night air. Crowley gave a satisfied huff before turning and reentering his apartment.

Crowley paused after stepping through the threshold. He bared his teeth, sighed, then gestured his hand in a manner as if he were pinching something off the floor. The car alarm came to an abrupt stop, most likely because the trash had vanished into thin air and the car was now as good as new. Literally. Crowley couldn't say what condition it had been in before, so it was best to play it safe.

In the newfound silence, the demon picked up a peculiar sound. It was like a mouse using the world's smallest chisel to dig a hole through the front door. He listened to the timid tapping for a moment longer before emitting an irritated grunt.

Crowley stalked through the apartment with purpose and raised his right hand. With a snap of his fingers, the metallic doors swung open with as much fanfare as if welcoming a visiting dignitary. This wasn't on purpose – but simply a byproduct of having doors illegally re-purposed from Chinese royalty.

Umbriel stood on his doorstep looking not much different from a wet dog. Well, if you came across a dog that was keen on makeup and leopard-print.

"No," Crowley growled, making to snap his fingers again, "ride."

"I'm sorry!" Umbriel cried out.

Crowley didn't move, his middle finger and thumb barely touching. Umbriel was holding the tartan handkerchief again, wringing it between her fingers.

"I shouldn't have made fun of it– the … the thing you wanted," Umbriel said. Smeared red lips quivered as the Guardian shook her head. "I never should have mentioned it at all. You didn't know; you didn't ask for me to see."

Crowley's hand dropped to his side. He regarded the angel in contemplation for a moment before giving a slight nod.

"That was a clear violation of privacy," he stated. Umbriel nodded in agreement.

"I could sue you for that," Crowley continued.

"Huh?" Umbriel said, the handkerchief in her hands straining under her nervous fidgeting.

"Lighten up, feather duster," Crowley said, leaning against the door frame. "What you saw was all a fabrication, anyway."

Umbriel's nose wrinkled in confusion.

"You don't think I _knew _what would happen when I touched you?" Crowley said as if the answer were obvious.

That was a lie.

"W-well …" Umbriel said, trailing off as doubt wriggled into her mind.

"I've been around for a long time," Crowley continued with a casual drawl. "I'm well aware of most of the intricacies of the universe – including all your little quirks."

That was another lie.

"So the thing about the sunglasses," Umbriel said, watching him with uncertainty. "That was made up?"

Crowley laughed. He regarded Umbriel with a pitying smile. "Oh, you sweet, naive little fledgling. What could I possibly want from having someone just _look _at me? Surely there are desires I would want to be fulfilled that are far greater than that, yes?"

There weren't any, actually; although Crowley being in denial about his general wish for acceptance was deep enough that even _he_ couldn't easily excavate this fact from his mind for further scrutiny.

Umbriel rapidly blinked as she tried to get a better grasp on the situation. "And what you said about the voles and all that …"

"An examination of your morality and inclination toward immoral temptations," Crowley said, opening his arms with a smile.

If you couldn't already tell this statement was a lie, then you haven't been paying attention.

Umbriel chuckled, shaking her head in astonishment. Her eyes landed on the demon as she regarded him with newfound admiration. Aziraphale had been the only acquaintance Crowley had ever known to give him a similar look. This caused an odd feeling to twitch in the demon's gut that he couldn't put his finger on.

"I need to pick up more wine," Crowley said, snapping his fingers. Umbriel leapt out of the way of the heavy front door as it slammed closed. "I'll drop you off at the bookshop after that."

With a carefree wave in her general direction, Umbriel found herself perfectly dry. She dropped her head to hide a smile as she followed Crowley down the hall.

**«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»**

**Seventh Circle (Violence)**

"Alright, Crowley," the demon mumbled. He lifted a bottle of pinot noir from the shelf, inspecting the label for a moment before tucking it under his arm. "Things are getting a bit out of hand, I admit. You opened your stupid mouth and now she may not hate you. The angels have that infuriating doe-eyed look like you're about to stomp a kitten to death and it's hard not to be an asshole. But I believe in you, mate, and you can turn things around. Just be the dickhead that you know you can be, and reach for the stars."

Crowley slithered between the isles of dark bottles toward the front of the small shop. Umbriel was engaged in a seemingly pleasant conversation with the owner of the establishment at the register as he outlined how his daughter was doing in art school and how he was _sure _that her take on using gelatin as a metaphor for humanity's insatiable need to stand on the backs of lesser creatures would reach the world stage.

"And what flavor would the exhibit be?" Crowley asked, tossing a few quid on the counter with a smirk. "What do you think is more enraging toward the fascist pigs leading the agricultural industry? My guess is strawberry, although lime could be bold enough to _really _get their attention."

Umbriel attempted to rectify the situation with a comment about the lovely weather as the shopkeeper's gaze hardened. But as it turned out, there was really no need for a distraction as a tinkling bell gave the man behind the counter something far more dire to worry about.

"Get back, all of you!"

Umbriel and Crowley turned to regard the portly man wearing a stereotypical ski mask and brandishing a silver bat. Crowley pumped his fist at his twist of bad luck.

"Back away, miss," the shopkeeper said, dark eyes darting to Umbriel. "It's alright – this has happened before. Just get back so you don't get hurt." Umbriel nodded and slowly took a step toward Crowley.

"No trouble, alright?" the shopkeeper said. He raised his arms to present his palms in a passive manner. "We don't want anyone getting hurt, and I don't think you do either."

"Speak for yourself!"

Umbriel let out a startled whoop as Crowley shoved her toward the armed robber.

"You're not just going to let this affront to morality happen right before your eyes are you, feather duster?" Crowley crowed. He raised the bottle of pinot noir in support as if he were encouraging her to do her best in a game of horseshoes as opposed to wresting a man twice her size brandishing a bat.

"Give 'em the _'old one-two,_' as the angel would say."

Umbriel's lips puckered in irritation. "Mr. Aziraphale would certainly not be encouraging me to _combat _someone!"

"But it's, you know, in the name of justice and all that nonsense," Crowley said, waving away her concern. "This is your wheelhouse."

"Not _fighting _someone!" Umbriel exclaimed.

"Wah?" Crowley said. "I've seen the angel put up a fight or two back in the day. Oh you shoulda seen him the time I came across him in Alexandria. The entire bleeding library was burning to the ground – flames licking the sky, mind – and he –"

Crowley paused to chuckle. "He walloped one of the arsonists with a table leg. It was on fire, too, but the angel hadn't noticed yet. And the bloody fool had this look on his face ..."

Crowley had to paused again as his laughter overtook him.

"H-hey!" the masked man shouted. The group turned to stare at him as if he had suddenly appeared from nowhere. It was rather insulting and still hurt the robber's feelings, despite the circumstances.

"Everyone just shut up and give me the money in the register!" he continued. He flinched as the man with red hair leaning against the counter let out a scoff.

"First off, rude to interrupt," the man said, regarding him behind tinted lenses despite it being well after dark. "Second off – not even going to ask for the smokes, too? Amateur hour."

The robber's shoulders stiffened from the perceived affront to his intelligence.

"L-look, you! Everyone just keep quiet and stay where you are!"

The man with shades let out a disappointed sigh as he lifted his head toward the ceiling. The sound brought up memories from all the humans present concerning their mother's reaction to a less than outstanding report card.

"Your best option right now is to turn yourself in, Daniel," Umbriel said, raising her palms. "the other possibility will be less than pleasant."

The robber's mouth flapped open a few times like a bass that suddenly found itself aground.

"How the hell do you know my name?"

"Ooh, I don't know but that sounds dicey," Crowley piped up. "Best to take her out – give her a good smack like you're hitting a piñata."

The man was so busy regarding Crowley in shock that he missed Umbriel slide an object from the edge of the counter. He looked down as a crinkling sound drew his eyes away from the gentleman in black.

"Sorry," Umbriel said mournfully.

The payday bar was shoved under the bottom cuff of the knitted mask. The metal bat fell to the floor with a clang as a much more pressing matter became apparent.

"I'M ALLERGIC!" the masked man gasped, fighting to tear the candy bar from the cloth. Bits of peanuts and caramel bounced across the carpet as he hopped about. He let out a wheezing gasp, falling to his knees as he tore the mask off to reveal a pale face that was quickly changing to bright pink as his skin swelled.

"Oh shit, you killed him," Crowley said, unable to keep the impressed tone from his voice.

"Amar, where's your allergy pen?" Umbriel snapped. The shop owner, Amar, couldn't recall telling Umbriel about his fish allergy, but the thought was pushed away as he swiftly disappeared into the back room.

"Aww, come on," Crowley said, watching the robber flop about. "At least let him go a little longer to be sorry for what he did."

Umbriel ignored the remark with a shake of her head. Upon Amar's return, she administered the allergy medication and let herself be dragged away by Crowley (who had tucked an extra bottle under his arm for all the trouble) before the cops arrived. Crowley couldn't help but to make a remark as he roughly shoved Umbriel into the Bentley and the vehicle roared to life.

"So you know everyone's weaknesses, yeah?" he said as he settled himself behind the wheel. "You could have a lotta fun with that."

"Angel's don't do that," Umbriel said, regarding him from the corner of her eye. "Nothing brings more joy than helping the Almighty's children, not harming them."

"Good God, your lot is boring," Crowley said, the statement accented with a smirk. The expletive left a searing sensation on his tongue, but much like humans who enjoy spicy food, the demon was starting to get a taste for it.

The amused smile was still on Crowley's face as the Bentley peeled out of the parking lot and made its way through the crowded streets of London. Although, saying that it _forced _its way through may have been a better description, considering all the bobbing, weaving, and swerving which was required to make it with everything intact.

Umbriel remained silent, her hands snapping back and forth between covering her mouth and being clasped in prayer. The angel's internal pleas were being answered so far, since they were nearly halfway to the bookshop without an incident when Crowley suddenly sat up straight.

"Fuck me!"

"Please be careful!" Umbriel shouted, watching wide-eyed as the couple crossing the street barely made it out of the way in time.

Unbeknownst to the angel, the expletive was not aimed at the dizzying close call. This was simply Crowley recalling that he had a job to do, which he was still failing at spectacularly. The car made a hard right, Umbriel's elbow painfully smacking against the door as she was shoved against it.

"Where are we going?" she asked, rubbing her arm.

"The cinema," Crowley responded, his voice firm.

**«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»**

**Eighth Circle (Fraud)**

It should come to no surprise to anyone reading this that Crowley talks through movies. The _entire _movie. Nonstop. He also likes to check his phone and won't hesitate to take a phone call, or even make one himself about what should be a particularly embarrassing medical issue concerning boils. This was one of the easier ways the demon had of spreading discontent among a group, since everyone was generally so polite and _British _that it was rare for anyone to speak up or do much more than give a disapproving click of their tongue. You would think that this would detract from Crowley's own viewing experience, but he generally pirated all the movies he wanted to see for home viewing beforehand so that was never an issue. He does thank you for your concern, though.

Today, however, Crowley was as quiet as a mouse. He had sweetly offered to grab the tickets and snacks while Umbriel admired the posters and warmly regarded the children mashing buttons in the arcade. She was even able to use a dropped napkin as a vehicle to catch a woman's attention that would lead to her bumping into an old friend from grade school. Umbriel was hard pressed to admit it, but she was having a rather pleasant time as she and Crowley made their way to the theater and found their seats.

Umbriel sat to Crowley's left, a large cup of soda at her elbow and an even larger bowl of popcorn in her lap. Her eyes were fixated on the glowing screen and she appeared happy as a clam as the movie made it to about the halfway point where the superheroes were doing their courageous thing to save the world using their superpowers (spoiler). She had tackled most of the bowl of popcorn on her own, and seemed content to keep plowing through it at a pace that even the demon found surprising for her general size.

Umbriel let out a joyful laugh as one of the quirky and likable superheroes made a somewhat insulting quip to another one of the quirky yet likable superheroes (spoiler).

It was at this point that Crowley decided to strike.

"Enjoying yourself, are we?"

Umbriel nodded fervently, her eyes still on the screen.

"I'm glad," Crowley whispered. Umbriel would have been far more alarmed had she been regarding the expression on the demon's face.

"I wasn't sure if you could, what with the 'sinning' thing and all."

Umbriel had tossed some popcorn into her mouth before her attention slowly drifted from the screen. It was near impossible to read the demon's expression in the dark, and the sunglasses most certainly didn't help.

"I didn't actually purchase tickets, you see," Crowley continued. "We just … snuck by without anyone noticing. Same with the popcorn – I nicked it from behind the counter. The humans were a little too busy to notice."

Umbriel's chewing came to a stop. Once again, Crowley tried to put on an innocent smile, and once again he failed as his amusement shone through. "See, feather duster? It isn't so bad. The world isn't ending, I can tell you that for sure."

Now was the moment Crowley was waiting for. Umbriel was going to huff and puff and storm out of the theater, or perhaps be more discreet like another angel Crowley was associated with and sneak money into the cash drawer when no one was watching. Either way, though, Crowley would sow some discontent that would lead to the lesser angel wanting nothing to do with him, and he could convince Aziraphale that she couldn't be trusted from there. He was in a winning scenario, either way.

Or not.

Umbriel's mouth opened, a saliva-coated glob of popcorn landing in the bucket with a squishy 'thud.' Crowley leaned away, a look of disgust falling over his face.

"I'm sorry," Umbriel whispered. Her companion quirked an eyebrow.

"Wah?"

"I'm sorry," Umbriel repeated. A glazed expression fell over her eyes as she stared into space. "Matthew is the manager on call tonight. I'm sorry. Cindy and Trevor are behind the counter. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Please forgive me, I didn't mean to."

"Oi," Crowley whispered. He gave Umbriel a tentative poke to her arm, but she didn't react.

"Zeke, Kaitlyn, Manny, Ezekiel, Mercedes," Umbriel continued, her voice rising. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Please forgive me, I didn't mean to."

"Excuse me."

Crowley slowly turned his head to regard the particularly bold man sitting two rows back.

"Please keep it down," the man continued. The rest of the theater internally cheered and collectively considered awarding the man a medal. Unfortunately, this only made things worse.

"I'M SORRY!" Umbriel shouted, rising to her feet. "To everyone I am disturbing in the theater, I'm sorry! I will list your names in alphabetical order by first name for efficiency; please do not think that because I am not saying your name sooner that my apology is less sincere."

Umbriel took a deep breath, staring ahead. "Alexander, I'm sorry. Amy, I'm sorry. Andrew, I'm sorry. Brandon, I'm sorry…"

Crowley sunk down in his seat as Umbriel jabbered on. He slipped out of the chair and started to slink down the aisle before the man from before spoke up again.

"Uh, sir? Is your girlfriend alright?"

Crowley froze. He straightened up to his full height and turned his head to regard the man. His expression was unreadable, but the patron sitting directly below him yelped as the soda he was holding suddenly came to a boil.

"Take that back."

"Huh?" the man said. The well-dressed gentleman with shades didn't immediately respond, his lip curling as the woman with the sparkling hair tie continued to prattle on.

"… Felicia, I'm sorry. Gerald, I'm sorry. Gertrude, I'm sorry …"

"I said," Crowley growled, leaning over the seats. "Take. That. Back."

"I … I don't understand," the man said. He looked to his seatmates for support – wondering if he had missed something – but he was met with perplexed expressions mirroring his own.

"I will not stand for _ever _being associated with THAT," Crowley said, pointing accusingly at Umbriel. The lesser angel didn't react, now beginning her apologies to Lauren and Liam.

"Ah, sir, I don't–"

"I don't need that freak!" Crowley shouted. His knuckles grew white as his grip on the back of the seat intensified. "Everything was fine before! Absolutely no problems! Well, knowing that the forces from both sides are plotting to kill the angel and I are a problem, but besides all that, just fine. It was just the angel and I for _millennia; _that doesn't have to change."

It had become very apparent that the woman spouting off names wasn't the only fruitcake in the vicinity. All eyes in the theater now drifted between Umbriel, Crowley, and the man who flinched slightly when Umbriel got to his name down the list.

"… Nicolas, I'm sorry …"

Poor Nicolas had fallen into every theater-goers worst nightmare when it came to asking a fellow patron to keep their voice down. He internally vowed to never speak up to another stranger again as long as he lived (that ended his stint in retail, but trust me that was all for the better).

"I don't _need _anyone," Crowley spat, unprovoked. He was no longer regarding Nicolas, instead staring off into space. "The angel was interesting, that's all. This one though? No. It's like one of those blasted toys that were so popular back in the day … they had those stupid looking ears and would just repeat the same bloody things over and over … what was that …"

"Furbies," a voice from down the row said.

Crowley snapped, pointing in their direction. "Thank you."

"Um," Nicolas said, figuring that since he started this whole thing, he was at least somewhat obligated to try and finish it. "I think we just want to watch the movie."

There was a grumble of consensus from the other movie goers. This boosted the confidence of a woman in the back.

"Yeah, just shut up already so we can watch the movie!"

The murmuring about Crowley grew louder.

"Ooh," Crowley said, a smile growing on his face. "You want me to put a sock in it, then?"

Sounds of agreement echoed throughout the theater. Crowley tilted his head to regard Umbriel.

"… Victoria, I'm sorry. Wanda, I'm sorry."

Umbriel blinked several times as if waking from a dream. She looked about as if she had suddenly been plopped into entirely new surroundings.

"Alright folks, settle in," Crowley said. "It's time for the show to start."

He waved his hands in a grand manner.

A low groan accented with a high-pitched squeal echoed through the ceiling. A few of the patrons gasped as they craned their necks to regard the crimson panels. Everyone flinched as a loud 'bang' rang through the air, and suddenly a torrent of dust balls fell from above. But these dust balls had feet. And teeth.

And squeaked.

"RATS!"

The theater erupted into screams as the crowd scrambled to climb over the chairs and each other. Miraculously, no one was hurt, including the startled creatures that now skittered across the floor in distress before forgetting their troubles entirely when faced with delicious artificially-flavored popcorn.

"Ow," Umbriel said, rubbing her head from where something had roughly bounced off. She bent down and put out her hands, one of the rodents being drawn to sit in her palm as if by an unknown force.

"Mice?" Umbriel said, straightening to regard the fuzzy creature.

"Voles," Crowley corrected. He stuffed his hands in his pockets as he turned and walked away.

"Oh," Umbriel said, putting down the animal. They were the only two people left in the theater now, so the only worry was to step over buckets of discarded snacks and scampering balls of fluff.

"I hope they have that on their insurance policy," Umbriel said absently.

"They will," Crowley replied, holding the door open for her as they exited the theater.

**«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»**

**Ninth Circle (Treachery)**

"What are we doing here?"

"This is your interrogation," Crowley replied. He laid sprawled out on the roof of the Bentley, his arms behind his head as he stared skyward.

"Can I at least sit _in _the car?" Umbriel asked. She awkwardly sat on the hood, shifting uncomfortably as she struggled to find a comfortable position.

"I have to be able to see you," Crowley said. "That's how interrogations work."

Umbriel huffed, glaring at the tailored black pants that she knew where attached to the rest of the demon. "You're just looking at the sky."

"Ursa Major," Crowley corrected. Umbriel threw up her hands in resignation. Their surroundings were nothing but grass and the chained-link fence a few yards ahead. Said fence had a privacy cloth draped along the side, making the view even more bland. Even the night sky wasn't very impressive, considering the flood lights from beyond the fence drowned most of the stars out.

"It's getting fairly late," Umbriel said, trying a different angle. "Mr. Aziraphale will get worried."

"Don't worry, the angel is probably so absorbed in that Doug Forcett novel about mystical foods that he probably forgot all about you."

Umbriel swung her leg around to lean forward and get a glimpse of the demon's face. "First of all, they're prophecies," she said. "And Mr. Aziraphale would certainly miss me."

"Keep telling yourself that, feather duster."

Umbriel moved to step down from the hood when a low rumble filled her ears. Her eyes darted about, but Crowley kept his locked skyward.

"You only get the full effect if you look up!" the demon shouted.

Umbriel lifted her head. She kept it perfectly still as the deafening roar filled her ears. The nose of a jumbo jet came into view, her eyes tracking the plane as it flew overhead then disappeared behind the fence. The screech of the landing gear was accented with the dying sound of Crowley's joyful yelling. Umbriel regarded him with a bored expression as the plane's engines were cut and the clearing was once again only filled with the sound of chirping crickets.

"Wayne's World," Umbriel said, pointing to the sky.

"Seen it?"

"No," Umbriel said, looking away. "I can tell you the script, and pull up some memories from the people who worked on the film."

Crowley bolted upright. He regarded her for a moment as if she were an alien species.

"What is Dana Carvey doing right now?" he asked with a level of urgency that would be far more appropriate in a life-or-death situation.

"Um, let me think," Umbriel said. She stared off into space for a moment before looking back to Crowley. "Probably jogging, or eating a salad."

"What do you mean _probably?" _Crowley asked, disappointed that Umbriel's trick wasn't nearly as impressive as he had been hoping (not unlike the type of tricks pulled off by another angel).

"It's mid afternoon in California, and that's what Dana normally does in the mid afternoon," Umbriel stated matter-of-factly.

Crowley groaned in disappointment. He repositioned himself into a lounging position and Umbriel tilted her head with a scowl to avoid getting kicked.

The Guardian pursed her lips, nails clacking against the metal hood as she sat in contemplation. She looked between Crowley and the grass a few times before finally speaking.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked.

"Bugger off."

"I'm thinking about Cassandra," Umbriel said. "She's a fox. In French she would be called 'la renard,' and she'd be hunted with only her cunning to protect her."

Crowley lifted his head. He regarded her with a blank expression for a moment before losing interest.

"Just reciting the lines isn't the same as seeing the film," he replied.

"That's true," Umbriel consented. "I had never bothered watching a film since I already knew everything about it. Well, every technical thing, I guess. Actually watching a movie was a pleasant experience I wasn't expecting."

Silence fell again, although Crowley's right foot began to rotate. The speed of the rotation seemed to align with his thoughts, because as soon as it was beginning to look like the Bentley had a makeshift propeller, the demon suddenly sat up.

"If the angel so much as breaks a fingernail because of something you or the Archangels do," Crowley warned, brandishing a finger, "I will make you wish you never set a toe into that bookshop."

A defiant stare was reflected in the dark lenses of Crowley glasses.

"I will not hurt Mr. Aziraphale," Umbriel said somberly. Her shoulders stiffened, and she looked like she was using all of her might to keep her hands from the demon's throat.

"If you don't say what you want to say, feather duster, then your head's going to pop right off your shoulders," Crowley said in amusement. "Although, I would be fine either way."

"You!" Umbriel shouted. The demon rejoiced in finally being able to make the angel lose her cool, even though like most of his successes he had stumbled into it by pure chance.

"You're telling me not to hurt him, but you, you …" Umbriel trailed off. Tears were forming in the corners of her eyes as she fretted. Crowley regarded her with genuine interest, leaning forward.

"Him associating with you," Umbriel said, her voice shaking. "If he keeps doing that, he might … he might fall."

The statement was like a punch to the gut. The memories were old – thousands of years old, in fact – but that didn't stop them from hurting any less. The sensations of fire coursing through his blood, his form twisting and stretching to unnatural lengths, and even his voice changing to a pitch he no longer recognized, were things he knew would stick with him for all eternity.

But most of all he remembered the loneliness.

There was an empty pit within him that was once filled with a love so great that it was ineffable. It was a pit that was no longer as empty as it once was, but Crowley knew that no amount of positive feelings would ever be able to fill the void left behind; God herself was a hard act to follow.

"After everything that happened with Armageddon," Crowley said, acting as if Umbriel's comment hadn't meant a thing, "you don't think the angel would have fallen after pulling a stunt like that?"

The car rocked slightly as Umbriel shifted in her seat. "I … I'm not sure," she said softly.

"If it were gonna happen, it would have been by now," Crowley said with a shrug. "It's not like any more of you lot have fallen since the beginning, after all. Unlikely to happen again, mind."

Crowley had absolutely no idea if his words were the truth, but he spoke them with enough conviction to sway the opinion of the Bentley's occupants none the less.

"But, if it _were _to happen," Umbriel said hesitantly. "I mean … it wouldn't hurt him, would it? He wouldn't suffer beyond ... well, _you know._ I mean, did it hurt for you?"

To Umbriel's surprise, Crowley smiled. He leaned his head into his hand as he propped his elbow on his knee.

"Why feather duster, are you coming on to me?"

Crowley's deflection was 100% successful. Umbriel stared at him as if he had just asked her to join him in the pits of hell.

"It's an old line, but still quite effective," Crowley continued with a smirk. "_'Did it hurt, when you fell down from heaven?'_"

Umbriel turned an unnatural shade of green, which from experience Crowley knew would be followed shortly after by an even more alarming shade of violet.

"I don't care what the angel says," Crowley growled. "If you puke on this car, I am leaving you out here to rot."

Umbriel shook her head in an attempt to compose herself. After a few short breaths, her coloring had returned to normal.

"I wasn't going to vomit," she protested.

"Were you, though?" Crowley asked doubtfully. Umbriel squirmed.

"Maybe a little bit, but only in my mouth."

The demon couldn't fight back a snort. Umbriel smiled cautiously, the corners of her lips twitching.

"Well, I'm obviously not the one you're all googly-eyed over," Crowley said. "Anyone with two eyes can see you've got the hots for the angel. Probably even people with one eye can pick that up too, I'd reckon."

Umbriel regarded him in puzzlement. "What are you talking about?"

"The 'L' word," Crowley said, tracing the letter in question in the air.

"Love?" Umbriel said, Crowley fighting not to wince. "Of course I love him. I love all of the angels, the Almighty, and all of her children as well."

"Ah, but the angel is _special," _Crowley said, waggling his finger. "Isn't he?"

Umbriel's expression grew contemplative. She tilted her head to-and-fro, and the demon couldn't help to think that her inner thoughts looked something like a loading screen. He practically heard the familiar 'bloop' of a gaming system coming online as she raised her eyes to regard him.

"Mr. Aziraphale is the first person to treat me like I'm more than what I am; like I have the potential to be something greater. No one has ever regarded me like that before. Does that … make sense?"

Crowley opened his mouth before changing his mind and snapping it back shut.

"Nope," he lied. "Absolute gibberish."

"Oh," Umbriel said, put out. She pouted as she studied the demon.

"I wonder what someone like you feels?"

"Guess you'll have to keep wondering," Crowley said, waving his hand. "This isn't _my _interrogation."

In the blink of eye, Umbriel's hand was wrapped around Crowley's. The sensation didn't hurt like before, but he felt waves of feelings that he knew certainly didn't belong to him. The first was curiosity, followed by an overwhelming feeling of shock.

"Mr. Aziraphale!" Umbriel exclaimed; eyes wide. "You love h–"

Out of all the features a 1934 Bentley is equipped with, a car alarm is not one of them. Bentley's of this make and model are also, theoretically, not supposed to have the hood pop open with enough force to send a person tumbling through the air as if they were a pancake being flipped by a particularly determined fry cook.

However, both of these things were now happening simultaneously.

A 1934 Bentley is still most incapable of giving a smug eyebrow wiggle upon the pancake landing flawlessly back in the pan, but the vehicle is certainly capable of letting out a triumphant honk when a certain angel lands flat on her back around two yards away with a very satisfying 'thud.'

The blaring siren of the car alarm fell away, and neither angel nor demon moved a muscle. The member of the group who had stayed firmly in place during this time eventually cleared his throat, adjusting his sunglasses.

"You deserved that, and don't you dare tell me otherwise," Crowley snapped.

There was no reply.

After a moment, the demon hoisted himself from the roof of the car and landed in the wet grass with a soft thump. Panic fluttered in his gut at the idea of how much trouble he would be in with the angel if he actually _did_ discorporate the Guardian. But on the bright side – if Umbriel wasn't around to retell the events – he could make her untimely demise be due to just about anything. He could even say they were in a car accident, which wouldn't be a _complete _lie.

There was also a larger part of him than Crowley would have liked to have admit that was actually concerned for the Guardian's well-being. He fervently tried to pretend that part didn't exist, although his usual carefree amble turned into a jog despite himself.

The demon was simultaneously relieved and frustrated to notice that the angel was still breathing as he drew close. Umbriel was staring skyward, her lips moving in an unintelligible mutter.

"You alright there, feather duster?" Crowley asked.

Umbriel shushed him. Crowley gesticulated his frustration as he fought the urge to pick Umbriel up and toss her another couple yards.

"Bear with me," Umbriel said, her voice dreamy as if her mind was far away. "This is the first time in a very, _very _long time that I've learned something entirely new."

Flailing limbs fell to the demon's side in contemplation.

"Yeah, well, sure," Crowley said after a moment, looking back over his shoulder. "Not every day do you see a car do something like that at a standstill."

"No," Umbriel said. She turned her head to regard her companion. The look immediately struck Crowley as being different. It took him a moment to put his finger on what it was.

"Demons can do something that I never thought possible," Umbriel said in awe.

Something clicked, and Crowley recognized that Umbriel was looking at him like Aziraphale. There was no hint of malice or judgement. It wasn't _exactly _the same as the way the higher angel would regard the demon, but it was close enough for a spark of familiarity to ignite in his chest in an alarming fashion. This was only the second time in his entire existence that Crowley felt something of this nature, and he was more than a little concerned that his corporal form might be having some sort of medical emergency.

"What does a stroke feel like, feather duster?" Crowley said, backing away. "I might be havin' a touch o' that."

"Do you smell toast?"

"Why the fuck would anything smell like toast?" Crowley asked, leaning over to put his hands on his knees as his dizziness subsided.

Umbriel pushed herself into a sitting position and put on a glowing expression. A _literal _glowing expression, accented with flashes of colors like a prism.

Crowley had recalled hearing once that Guardians came into being around the time after the great flood when God invented the rainbow. The rainbow was a part of God's promise never to wipe out the humans (or at least a big chunk of them) again, and it wouldn't seem out of place for the Guardians to be a facet of that promise to keep them safe. There was probably more to it than that, but Crowley had a habit of letting his mind wander during Hell's quarter-century meetings.

But the rainbow thing was probably right, since the grassy clearing was looking like a discotheque sans the poor dancing and platform shoes. Even with sunglasses, Crowley found the light painful to look at.

"Shut it down, feather duster, before we're up to our necks in every blasted bug in the countryside," Crowley snapped. He turned away and stalked back toward the car. The odd sensation from before was less jarring now, and at the very least he was hopeful that it wasn't a stroke or a brain aneurysm.

"Alright, Mr. Crowley," Umbriel said. She brushed the grass off her legs and only walked with a _slight _limp as she made her way back to the car.

**«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»**

The black car rolled up to the bookshop shortly after midnight. Umbriel's hand paused on the the Bentley's door handle.

"Mr. Aziraphale would be happy to see you if you would like to come in," she said kindly. Crowley was sorely beginning to miss the level of underlying contempt that used to lace her words when she addressed him.

"I got plants to water," Crowley said, shooing her away. Umbriel nodded.

"Um, I would like to hear the end of that story," the Guardian said as she slid out of her seat. "About Mr. Aziraphale in Alexandria. I have a feeling he wouldn't recount that one very well."

"Unlikely," Crowley agreed.

Umbriel closed the door, she took a few steps toward the bookshop before pausing to give a parting message.

"I had fun."

The Guardian produced a key and let herself into the shop. A warm glow fell over the Bentley for a moment before the car was once again shrouded in darkness. Crowley sighed, shifting the car into gear.

"I can't even get an angel to hate me. I really am a shitty demon."

·◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊·

"Do they suspect anything?"

"Nothing more than usual," Umbriel replied. Her hands found a fuzzy pink sweater on the clothing rack. The Guardian lifted the garment to give it further inspection.

"Is your report ready?" her companion asked. Umbriel raised her eyes to meet the dark ones peering back at her from the adjacent isle. Her grip on the sweater intensified for a moment before she gave a quick nod. The pink sweater was passed from one outstretched hand to another, and the Archangel Uriel studied the clothing with enough intensity to make an elderly woman passing by think that the pair of women must have come by an especially rare find in the small thrift shop.

What the onlooker didn't notice, however, was the glowing blue tint that momentarily clouded Uriel's vision before clearing. The Archangel didn't bother hanging the faded top as she tossed it behind her shoulder.

"All they do is bloody drink," the higher angel said, aggravated. Umbriel frowned slightly, but still nodded in agreement.

"Even so, there's no doubt upstairs that the two of them are consorting over something," Uriel continued. She leaned over the rack, getting near enough for Umbriel to perform a close inspection of the glittery shadow touching the angel's dark lids.

"Has Principality Aziraphale made any further inquiries about your reports to us?"

"No," Umbriel said, lowering her gaze. "He hasn't asked since around a week or so after we first met."

"And the demon Crowley?"

"I …" Umbriel said, trailing off slightly. "I believe he trusts Principality Aziraphale to handle my questioning."

"And they trust you?"

"Beginning to, I think," Umbriel replied curtly.

"So they're already letting their guard down," Uriel said. "Good work."

"Thank you, Archangel Uriel," Umbriel said, staring at the assortment of brightly-colored garments.

"I'm sure this is taxing for you," Uriel said, although her voice gave no indication of general concern. "But what you need to complete your mission is almost ready. Balance will be restored, and we can move forward with God's plan. Have all of your arrangements in order, Guardian Umbriel."

"I am prepared," Umbriel replied.

The methodical click of Uriel's heels heralded the angel's departure. Umbriel regarded the clothing at her fingertips with a blank expression before slowly picking through the garments to judge which ones she should bring with her. She had told Aziraphale that she would be shopping, after all, and didn't want to be a liar.


	4. Chapter 4

If it were possible for a worn, softcover book with a peeling glossy cover and stereotypical coffee stain to undergo the process of osmosis with a tan waistcoat, surely it would have happened by now. This was what the demon Crowley was thinking, anyway, as he watched Aziraphale hold the thing so tightly the angel's knuckles were turning white.

"You don't think she'll change her mind about selling it, do you?" Aziraphale asked for – let's see – the fifth time now.

"Nah," Crowley said, scrunching his nose as he leaned around a wide bookshelf to peer at the mousy woman frantically typing away at the desktop behind the counter. The woman let out a frustrated sound as she snatched up a cellphone and began typing in a number.

This woman's name, on the few occasions anyone cared to ask, was Cecile.

Cecile owned a bookshop specializing in rare oddities – a description that probably sounds a bit familiar.

In fact, Cecile and a certain angel would have what many would consider a fervent rivalry … if it weren't for the fact that Aziraphale wasn't much into the act of actually _selling _any books. Sure, a few would be swept away every now and then if a better copy of said book came along – or if Aziraphale was offered a particularly tantalizing trade – but when it came to actually going through the process of running a lucrative business, Cecile had the angel beat a hundred times over.

This was a fact, however, that had understandably been lost on the less than divine bookseller. You see, from Cecile's point of view, her rival was doing well enough for himself that he was not only able to rent a spacious venue in the coveted area of Soho, but he did so without even bothering to have an online presence. The aggravatingly chipper Mr. Fell didn't do any marketing _at all _from what Cecile had garnered, and yet he somehow made more than enough to live most comfortably and continue to grow his bafflingly large personal collection of first editions and limited prints.

To say that Cecile disliked Aziraphale wouldn't be entirely accurate, but we can certainly make the assumption that she wouldn't inform him of a spot of chocolate on his lip, or put in more effort than a speculative wave if he inquired about the location of the closest bus stop. We can also assume that pride can drive many of us to do imbecilic things – refusing to sell a book for a sum that would put your darling nephew through half a year at an ivy-league college (or an entire year, if he actually cared to go to class) would be a good example.

It was the pride in finally being able to lord _anything _over Mr. Fell that lead Cecile to refuse every offer her perceived rival made on a certain book nestled on the shelf behind the counter. Cecile alleged that this was for sentimental reasons, which wasn't a complete fabrication, since the feelings that the book conjured were ones of superiority that she would be more than happy enough to cling to for the rest of her life.

The woman's mirth at watching her bubbly rival grow uncharacteristically agitated was short lived, however, when the red-haired man in shades who had sauntered in on Mr. Fell's heels piped up from the corner of the shop.

"Unless you're keeping scribes chained to desks down there," the man drawled, motioning his thumb toward the basement, "that scratching noise means you have unwanted guests."

Neither angel nor demon had witnessed anything donned in a chunky, grey knitted sweater move so fast – it was a baffling affront against nature.

"Heavens, what could it be?" Aziraphale asked, leaning away from the counter to peer into the dimly lit void leading to the stairs.

"Dunno, but it sounds _expensive," _his companion replied before sauntering away.

When Cecile appeared above ground again no less than 10 minutes (and a quick google search on her phone concerning how much an exterminator would cost) later, she was not only more than willing to sell the book in question, but she was mostly able to mask the soul-crushing defeat behind an exuberant add-on of a pressed-daisy bookmark.

Aziraphale probably would have noticed the look if he wasn't cradling the newest addition to his collection akin to how he held the son of God thousands of years prior. He would never admit it, but this experience was far more pleasant since a soiled diaper wasn't involved.

"I don't even get it," Crowley said, his attention drifting from the frazzled bookseller. The demon wasn't particularly concerned about her plight, since he was well aware that the vermin terrorizing her basement were going to mysteriously dematerialize into thin air the second her two visitors stepped outside the shop.

"That book is … what?" Crowley continued, picking up a thick volume on chakra crystals and promptly dropping it back on the table with a satisfying thud. "Four years old? How can it be so valuable already?"

"12 years old, actually," Aziraphale corrected, tilting the book to lovingly regard its cover. "And not many copies were printed. The author was … well … rather _put out _by the reception, and ended up tossing all of the unsold versions into the Boston harbor after having a few too many."

"So, he got pissed and threw a wobbly like they did back then with the tea," Crowley said. A smile tugged at his lips from the expected mournful sigh that escaped Aziraphale every time the Boston Tea Party was mentioned. The revolutionaries had been lucky that a certain Principality was on the other side of the pond at the time, or else they would have gone to the docks the next day to see all of the crates miraculously ashore along with a strongly worded note bemoaning them for the blatant disrespect of good tea.

"Well, I can see why," Crowley said, lazily picking up another book. "This one's more rubbish about telling fortunes using coffee grounds, innit? As if tea leaves and cards and bones and all that weren't enough."

"Well, no, actually," Aziraphale countered. "It's – ah, well – no. Yes … Yes you are perfectly correct, actually."

Aziraphale hugged the book against his chest, although now with the alternative motive of keeping the cover hidden tossed into play.

Crowley hadn't been too far off, but the book's real nature was to tell fortunes by reading the patterns of syrup dribbled over the whipped cream topping of a particular frozen beverage from a worldwide chain of coffee shops.

The author of this manuscript claimed that an overworked and unsuspecting barista was a perfect catalyst to act as an oracle between the divine and the mortal realm. Akin to how no one would suspect the Almighty to speak through a toasted shrub, millions of people would overlook the word of God being literally drizzled right before their eyes. In other words … it was insane.

Well, he wasn't wrong. God had been hoping someone would eventually catch on, and found the entire thing rather hilarious.

…

But it was insane, nonetheless.

"And why are we still here?" Crowley asked, another loud thud ringing through the small shop as he let a book concerning alchemy using modern bathroom cleaners fall from his grasp. Cecile shot him an irritated glance before returning to her conversation with the exterminator about the type of rodent she believed to be acting as a living carpet in her basement.

"Poor Cecile seems to be in a bit of a bind for funds, so I was thinking of picking up a few things," Aziraphale said, blissfully unaware that the best thing he could do for Cecile at the moment would be to bugger off. The angel picked up a pencil case with a repeating pattern of tight-knit yarn that would make Lisa Frank balk.

"Do you think Umbriel would like this?" Aziraphale said, inspecting the bag as if it were his first time seeing such a contraption. "It isn't shiny, but it certainly has the desired pallet."

"You'll go blind if you look at that thing for too long," Crowley said with a shrug. "Suites her perfectly, I think."

Aziraphale made a satisfied hum before tucking the bag under his arm. He continued to pick up and inspect various pencil holders, notepads, magnets, and other knick-knacks along the table before Crowley's voice broke him out of his thoughts.

"Angel."

"Hmm?"

Aziraphale flinched. Crowley regarded him sternly, his arms practically overflowing with items – there was more merchandise on him than there was the table.

"What in the world are you doing?" Aziraphale asked, knitting his brow.

"Holding every bloody thing you kept handing me," Crowley replied. One would expect a hint of malice to be in his voice, but it was peculiarly free of any signs of agitation. "What's going on?"

Aziraphale chuckled, choked on his spit, and cleared his throat. "Nothing. Nothing at all. Let's put some of that back; not like there would be room for it all, I think. Ah, no, but we'll keep this rabbit magnet, yes; I believe my dear will like that."

Crowley dutifully juggled the items about at Aziraphale's discretion; tinted lenses never leaving the angel in the meanwhile. Aziraphale babbled in feigned uncertainty over which items to keep, his cheerful tone returning. He didn't, however, meet Crowley's gaze, which continued on through the payment of the additional items and their departure from the small shop (Cecile immediately noticed that something had changed, but it took her a few moments to come to the conclusion that she could now take a tumble down the basement stairs and be properly injured like God intended, instead of the fall being cushioned by a squeaking safety net).

The Bentley had been parked around the corner, but the pair passed by the car with only one of them seemingly acknowledging its existence. It was midday on a Thursday, so the cramped, quaint suburbia hugging each side of the road created a serene bubble that was only disturbed by the occasional barking dog and the crinkling sound of plastic bags jostling against their knees. They continued on with no particular heading; sporadic additions of a left at a willow tree or right turn at a cottage with an especially gaudy water feature fell behind them for nearly half an hour before Aziraphale finally spoke.

"I think my original idea has gone all to pot."

Crowley mouthed the phrase, failing at pulling up the meaning.

"I don't think we should ask Umbriel to join our side, is what I mean."

Crowley came to a stop. Aziraphale's gait slowed to a canter before joining him. He tugged on the hem of his waistcoat as if righting the garment would right everything in the world along with it.

"Look at me, angel."

Aziraphale met Crowley's hard stare, guilt flashing behind blue eyes.

"What did you find out?" Crowley asked steadily. "Was it the Archangels?"

"What? No. No!" Aziraphale said, alarmed. "I mean, yes, _sort of. _It's just …"

Aziraphale tugged at his waistcoat again, the tortoiseshell buttons straining in protest. "She wouldn't be able to protect herself, would she? If the Archangels decided to … to _do something _about her. They wouldn't go after us because of what happened the last time they tried, but she wouldn't have the same level of assurance that we have. She could be … might be …"

Crowley followed Aziraphale's line of thought.

"Poof."

Aziraphale grimaced, but nodded in concurrence. "Poof," he echoed.

They stood in silence for a moment. Aziraphale discovered that he had been victorious in his test of strength against the waistcoat – the bottom most button now missing. He spun in a small circle as his eyes danced over the sidewalk, but the nearby storm drain had already claimed the button as a prize. Crowley regarded Aziraphale during all this, but his mind seemed to be elsewhere.

"This is what always would have been at stake, angel," Crowley finally said. Aziraphale lifted his head, eyes wide.

"Going 'poof' is probably going to be the end result for us too, innit?" he continued. A tired sound escaped his lips as he adjusted his sunglasses. "Don't think we ever really stood a chance; odds aren't quite stacked in our favor."

Panic washed over Aziraphale like the cold, salty waves of the Atlantic that sunk all that precious tea in 1773.

"Crowley, you're not–"

"I'm not backing out," Crowley interjected. "If I'm gonna kick the bucket, I'm gonna do it standing next to you, angel; s'good enough for me."

Aziraphale was left conflicted on whether the statement should leave him touched or depressed. After a few seconds of fretful head shakes, he decided to discredit both and puffed out his chest.

"They will not lay a single finger on you!" the angel declared, waving his own finger through the air as if to affirm the statement. "I won't allow it! And we will not lose; I won't allow that, either!"

Crowley was reminded of why he had gone out of his way to continue bumping into the angel over the past six thousand years.

"Uh huh," the demon said, his slouch retreating. "Guess that about settles it, then."

"It most certainly does," Aziraphale huffed. He stepped past Crowley with purpose, the demon matching his gait. Despite earlier assumptions, Aziraphale appeared to have been keeping a very good record of their stroll and how to get back to the car. The angel was mumbling to himself in righteous indignation, his companion regarding him with a side glance and an amused expression.

"… and yes, our dear Umbriel, too," Aziraphale muttered, turning a sharp left past a white picket fence being overtaken by a rose bush. "… not a _single _finger, not one!"

"Alright, alright," Crowley said. "You'll be fuming over this the whole ride back to Soho if you don't calm down."

"I am the very picture of tranquility!" Aziraphale snapped. Crowley made a face, knowing better than to comment on the remark. He decided to go with a distraction tactic instead.

"Why do you call her that, anyway?"

"Who?" Aziraphale said, regarding Crowley with a bunched brow.

"Feather duster," Crowley continued. "And '_my dear.'"_

"It's a term of endearment, Crowley," Aziraphale said, his excitement level dwindling as his companion had intended. "I feel that it's rather fitting."

"Ah," Crowley said, raising his brows. "So all an angel has to do is not try to kill you, and suddenly she's deemed special enough to be '_my dear.'"_

"Well–" Aziraphale began. He paused, noting the expression on Crowley's face. The corners of his mouth rose slightly.

"You're moping."

"Wah?" Crowley said, incredulous. "Am not."

The self-assured look on his companion's face conveyed what he thought of that statement. Crowley met the gaze with a baring of teeth before looking away.

"I tried to give you one too, you know," Aziraphale said thoughtfully. "But you responded rather poorly back then, so I haven't done it since."

"Oh, get off it," Crowley said.

"It's most certainly true," Aziraphale insisted. "Around a hundred – maybe a hundred and twenty or so – years ago I greeted you with, _'It's good to see you again, pard!' _and you gave me the most dreadful look before stalking off; didn't see you for another two or so years."

"I don't even remember that," Crowley said. "And what the hell is a pard? Sounds like a fish."

"Most certainly not a fish, I assure you," Aziraphale said. "It simply means _'good friend.'"_

Crowley made a dismissive sound. "Still sounds like something you'd find sucking up the muck at the bottom of a tank."

Aziraphale chuckled at the mental image. "Alright then. No more pard, dearest."

Crowley groaned. Aziraphale seemed rather tickled by the reaction.

"What are you, my nan?" Crowley said with a wave. "I've gone thousands of years without one of those, I don't need one now."

"Of course, of course," Aziraphale agreed. "Terribly sorry, darling."

Emotions crossed Crowley's face like a shifting kaleidoscope. It took them strolling an entire block before the demon finally settled on a sentiment and opened his mouth.

"That one's a little … much."

"Not to worry," Aziraphale said, too busy thinking up of a follow up remark to notice that the demon may have been less than truthful. "I'll come up with another one that you'll find most pleasing, my dear biffle."

"Biffle?" Crowley said, beginning to thoroughly regret this topic of conversation.

"'_Best friend for life,'_" Aziraphale explained, beaming. They had reached the car now – the angel's companion seriously considering driving off without him in it.

"I'll get you whatever bloody book you want if you just stop talking," Crowley said. The Bentley's doors dutifully popped open, and he bent down to slide into the black leather seat.

"Oh, no need," Aziraphale said, white curls brushing against the doorframe as he ducked his head. "But I do thank you for the offer, mon chou."

"Mon ...?"

The statement drifted away as Crowley started the car. He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel in contemplation before shrugging his shoulders.

"You know what? Fine," he said. Crowley put his arm over the back of the passenger seat as he backed up the car. "That one ain't so bad."

"Mon chou?" Aziraphale said, flabbergasted. "Really?"

"It's that thing they say all the time over there that means _'good friend' _or something, yeah?" Crowley asked as he turned around and shifted the car into gear.

Aziraphale weighed his options before speaking. He decided to go with the one that seemed the most amusing.

"Yes, let's go with that."

·◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊·

"Are we there yet?" Crowley groaned, squinting his eyes against the afternoon sun.

"I don't know why you're complaining," Aziraphale said, watching the demon with disdain. "If anything, _I _should be the one chastising _you_ for your ridiculous display."

"Well if you didn't mislead me to think that we were 'here' when you said that we were 'here,'" Crowley said, leaning his elbow out the car window. "Then I wouldn't be doing this now, would I?"

"You can walk a few yards, Crowley," Aziraphale replied. He glanced behind him at the winding trail the Bentley left behind through the tall grass. Aziraphale and Umbriel had exited the car in the parking lot at the edge of the park, only for Crowley to insist on driving all the way to the picnic site when he refused to do an activity even remotely resembling something 'outdoorsy.'

The picnic had been an idea Aziraphale had come up with after he and Crowley agreed to fold Umbriel into their preparations, or "plotting" as Crowley liked to call it, garnering a disapproving side eye from the angel. Umbriel had mentioned being fond of the spot, which left the bustling city behind in exchange for fields of grass and acres of cabbages that could be admired in the distance (as much as such things could be admired).

"If one were to garner anything from the look on your face," Aziraphale added as he returned his attention forward. "They could hazard a guess that you were growing rather tired of driving anyway, no?"

Crowley kept the speed of the automobile at a near crawl as he rolled alongside Aziraphale to match the angel's pace.

"No," Crowley said, his voice dripping in contempt. "I was aggravated because getting all the way out to the bloody countryside while doing everything possible to avoid being on the M25 made the drive take nearly an hour longer than it should've."

"I told you," Aziraphale said, dropping his voice. Umbriel was quite far ahead of them in the wide field, but he still didn't want to risk being overhead. "Umbriel has a … um … _distaste _for the M25."

"Who doesn't?" Crowley said, a hint of pride to his voice. It was one of the few dastardly projects of his own that Crowley had ever put more than trivial effort into, after all.

"Erm, no," Aziraphale said, looking uncomfortable. "She was there on the M25 when it, well, _blew up … _as it were."

"Wah?" Crowley said, failing to see the issue. "All those people came back to life, didn't they? No harm, no foul."

"Well, yes," Aziraphale agreed. "But you can understand why she would still remember it as being a rather traumatizing experience, considering her connection to humans."

"Seems like a stupid thing to be upset about," Crowley said. Aziraphale shushed him, hoping Umbriel didn't hear the comment. The Guardian didn't turn back to regard them, thankfully.

"So she was there, yeah? When it was all burning?" Crowley said. He tilted his head as he frowned in thought.

"Maybe I drove right past her; I would have stopped to give her a lift." Crowley chuckled. "Who am I kidding – no I wouldn't."

"It isn't funny!" Aziraphale hissed, his eyes wide. "Don't you mention a single thing about it to her, Crowley!"

"Yeah, yeah," Crowley said, waving away the concern. The two of them continued the trek (well, on Aziraphale's part) in silence as they approached a hill that Umbriel had chosen to be their destination.

Aziraphale wasn't attuned much for physical exertion, but he still possessed enough dignity to refuse Crowley's offer for a ride and huff-and-puff his way up the short hill toward the large oak tree at its crest.

By the time Aziraphale made it to the shade, Umbriel had already set out the blanket and neatly stacked a trio of boxed lunches she had pulled from a large picnic basket. She was currently positioning two bottles of wine into an empty metal bucket as Aziraphale did his best to lower himself opposite her without outright collapsing.

"Ice, please," Umbriel said, a dinging sound cutting through the air as she tapped a fingernail against the bucket.

Aziraphale let out a strained chuckle in a vain attempt at covering up the fact that his heart might explode. Ice suddenly popped into existence between the two bottles, and the higher angel swayed slightly in his seat as the world began to spin.

"You're such a pansy," Crowley drawled. The dark Bentley had been parked at an angle alongside the tree, and the demon casually closed the drivers-side door before making the short stroll in their direction.

"I–! _I'm_ the–!" Aziraphale sputtered, being cut off as Crowley tapped the angel's hip with his shoe.

"Budge up and make some room, angel."

Crowley shrugged his shoulders in an expectant manner as Aziraphale gaped at the indignation.

Umbriel made an irritated sound. Crowley regarded her for a moment before returning his attention to Aziraphale. "See, you're upsetting the feather duster. Move your ass."

Aziraphale balked. "_I _am most certainly not the one–"

"You can sit here," Umbriel interrupted, rising from her spot. She stepped around the boxes to sit partially in the grass next to Aziraphale. Crowley took her old spot without question, unabashedly assuming a lounging position while Aziraphale tutted.

"Oh no, dear. Your dress will get a stain if you sit like that. I'll scooch over a bit and you can settle yourself in right here. Ah, there we are."

The two angels beamed at each other as they got comfortable. The flowy, long-sleeved dress Umbriel had saved from grass stains was a light cream in color accented with a repeating pattern of brown leaves. With her hair tied up in a sweeping bun, she looked like she had leapt straight from the pages of an 80's homemaking magazine. The fact that she also matched Aziraphale's color pallet made the two angels resemble a straight-edge couple who would consider going out for pizza to be a "wild night on the town."

Crowley fought the urge to gag, hoping that repetitively being in the presence of two nauseatingly chipper entities wouldn't be too much for his constitution to bear.

"And what did you bring for us, hmm?" Aziraphale asked, picking up one of the boxes. "You were in the kitchen all morning if memory serves me right."

Aziraphale opened the light blue container in his lap and he regarded the expertly crafted sandwich with a grin. His brow suddenly furrowed before his mouth opened in shock.

"Why, this looks _just_ like the club sandwich they used to serve at that café on the south end before the owner closed up shop for retirement."

Umbriel puffed out her chest with a smug grin. Aziraphale regarded her in amazement, his smile widening.

"You _didn't!" _he exclaimed.

"Well, it's still Emmanuel's work … _sort of," _Umbriel said. "You seemed so fond of it when you mentioned the café before, so I just pulled up a few of his memories. It's not perfect–"

Umbriel paused, regarding Crowley with a sheepish smile.

"… but I'm still trying to learn."

"My little duck," Aziraphale said with a chuckle, reaching up to playfully pinch Umbriel's cheek. Umbriel giggled before picking up another one of the lunches and offering it to Crowley.

"I've lost my appetite," Crowley deadpanned. Umbriel pulled back her hand. She and Aziraphale exchanged a look that transformed into a knowing smile.

"Heaven and Hell help me both if this is what my life is going to be now," Crowley groaned, reaching for the wine.

**«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»**

As it turned out, Aziraphale had been more than happy to help Crowley with his sandwich, and the three empty boxes now sat off to the side of the blanket as the trio admired the pinks and yellows of the clouds in the setting sky. Well, two of the three did, the third member (whose name really needs no mention) scrolling through their phone and cursing the poor data coverage.

"Ah, well," Aziraphale said, lowering the empty glass from his mouth as he broke his gaze from the sunset. "I suppose this is as good a time as any to get down to business, then."

"If the two of you are about to start dogging," Crowley said, putting his phone in his pocket. "I'll be having a lie-down in the Bentley."

"'Dogging?'" Aziraphale said, puzzled. "I'm not sure I'm familiar with that term, _'dogging.'_"

If someone pointed a gun (or rather, a water pistol filled with holy water) to his head, Crowley would admit that there was _one _truly nice thing about having Umbriel around: The risk of having one of his quips fly over his target's head and not leave anyone properly offended had all but been quelled.

Umbriel may have been at the bottom of the barrel when it came to angels, but the way she was staring down Crowley indicated that she would not hesitate to put the full wrath of God behind her assault if he dared to elaborate on the term.

"More wine?" Crowley asked, taking the empty glass from Aziraphale's fingers.

"Oh, yes, thank you," Aziraphale said, successfully distracted. He watched Crowley with a pleasant smile as the demon topped off his glass. After taking it back and having a sip, he turned slightly to regard Umbriel.

"Actually, my dear, there is something Crowley and I would like to ask you. I have to preface it by saying that you are under no pressure to agree, and that neither of us will be upset in the slightest if you don't."

Crowley was tempted to reach for the low-hanging fruit of making another joke of the sexual nature, but decided against it with a shrug and dismissive wave.

"You see, Umbriel," Aziraphale said, smiling gently at the Guardian's worried expression, "Crowley and I believe that the next time a war is to break out – another _big _war, you know – that it will not be between the forces of Heaven and Hell. At least, not in the beginning."

Aziraphale cleared his throat uncomfortably as he set his wine glass aside. "Crowley and I, well, we were a bit outnumbered during the last apocalypse. Everything turned out alright, as you can see, but, ah …"

"The next time around, things will probably go to shit," Crowley added as Aziraphale trailed off. Aziraphale pursed his lips, nodding in agreement.

"Well, um, yes," Aziraphale continued. "To get back on track – we believe that the first thing that will happen during the next 'end of times,' as it were, will be the angels and demons ensuring that there will be nothing in their way from trying to destroy one another."

"And that parts all fine and dandy," Crowley interjected, "just not the thing before it."

"I would rather _no one _be destroyed," Aziraphale said, shooting Crowley a disapproving look. "But, the fact of the matter is that the humans will have to stand alone to face the forces of Heaven and Hell, unless … unless we choose to stand with them."

The last of the fading yellow glow slipped below the horizon, bathing the group in a soft purple and the white light of the waxing moon.

A wide pair of eyes regarded Aziraphale in disbelief. Umbriel looked to Crowley, wondering if the demon had succeeded in teaching the higher angel how to pull a prank. But the demon's expression was just as solemn as his companion, and Umbriel's jaw dropped.

"You– you can't!" she objected, mortified. "Last time … last time it was unexpected. If you did it again with everyone knowing you can't be trusted–"

"They'll what?" Crowley said, the shadows twisting his expression into something more sinister. "Burn us with hellfire? Douse us with holy water? Not sure if you heard, but that wasn't so effective the last time."

Aziraphale cleared his throat. "But Umbriel doesn't have that … ah …. _assurance." _He reached out to clasp the Guardian's hand. There was a wave of muddled emotions shifting between fear, confusion, and … guilt? He may have been mistaken, since that emotion was quickly extinguished.

"I know that we have no right to ask you to risk your life," Aziraphale continued. "To say the truth, I'm not even sure if Heaven's armies even require Guardians to fight. You may very well be able to simply wait upstairs until the entire thing blows over, as it were."

To his surprise, Umbriel let out a strained laugh.

"I've never been," Umbriel said. She used her free hand to gesture skyward. "To Heaven, I mean."

Aziraphale blinked in rapid succession, unsure if he heard the statement correctly. "You … You've never been to _Heaven? _But … but _how?_"

Umbriel took a deep breath and shrugged. "I just haven't; Guardians never have a need to go. If we're ever discorporated, things go sort of hazy, you take a number, and wait your turn until you're issued another body."

"Take a number?" Crowley said, sitting up a little straighter. "Like at the deli?"

Aziraphale opened his mouth to make a weak protest on Heaven's behalf, but his senses were drawn back to Umbriel as something shifted. The feeling bubbled up like a thick tar fighting its way to crack a rigid surface. Aziraphale was shocked to discover that an angel could even experience something so … unstable.

Umbriel's outer appearance only reflected this sentiment with a twitch to the corner of her lip.

"When the Earth is destroyed next time around, I'm honestly not sure what's going to happen to me."

The Guardian fought to keep a pleasant expression, but was quickly losing the battle. "It'll be so lonely," she continued. "All the Almighty's children will be up in Heaven, and I'll be … I'll still be down here."

A wave of despair so deep washed through Aziraphale that he couldn't help but to pull back his hand with a startled gasp. The Guardian tried to laugh, holding their gaze steady as tears ran freely down her cheeks. She continued to chuckle between gasps as if her mind and body were on opposite sides of a war for supremacy. As disturbing as it was, it was rather fitting for the topic of discussion.

"Hold her, angel."

Aziraphale glanced behind him. Crowley's nose wrinkled in irritation.

"Don't look at _me_; it's not my help she wants."

Aziraphale nodded, shifting his position. He brought Umbriel into his arms, her laughter coming to a jarring stop like a needle being pulled off a record. The sound was replaced by Aziraphale's whispered sentiments, although those, too, quickly drifted away. The angel could no longer feel Umbriel's emotions. He felt _something, _but it was like a pit that reached on for eternity.

"Umbriel," Aziraphale muttered. "My dear, where did you go?"

Aziraphale didn't even register that Crowley had moved before he found himself tumbling backwards from a forceful yank to his jacket. He blinked up at the Moon in surprise before pushing himself onto his arms.

"Nah, she's not all gone."

Crowley had taken Aziraphale's place before Umbriel, but unlike the higher angel, it seemed that a fingertip to the cheek was the most physical contact the demon was willing to exchange.

"Listen – you don't know shit," Crowley said, an air of certainty to his voice. "The Almighty won't just leave your lot down here; I don't see any reason why she would. You're not getting abandoned."

Crowley may have well been speaking to a mannequin, for all the reaction he elicited. But after a moment, Umbriel blinked. Then again. Soon her eyes were drifting about Crowley's face before her hand darted up to swat his finger away.

"Ah, there she is," Crowley said, satisfied. "Not even a _'thank you' _–ungrateful thing."

"You … you don't know if you're right," Umbriel said, her voice cracking as if she had never used it before. "I wouldn't be needed anymore. What would a Guardian Angel do in Heaven?"

"I dunno … fly about? Sing hymns? Golf?" Crowley said, getting to his feet with a shrug. "The same shit all the other angels and salvaged souls are supposed to do, I take it."

"Oh, um, yes, probably that," Aziraphale agreed. He came up from behind Crowley, blades of grass falling loose from his sleeve as he offered Umbriel the tan and cream pocket square in his grasp. Umbriel took the offering more out of muscle memory, than anything.

"How about we circle back to this another time, yes?" Aziraphale said as if they had been discussing something far less dire than the end of all humanity. "And like I said, Crowley and I aren't vexed – if you want to keep yourself on the Archangel's good side, everything between us will still be tickety-boo."

Umbriel rose to her feet, roughly wringing the material of the handkerchief in her hands. Aziraphale cleared his throat and politely reached out to take the cloth back before it was ripped in two, but Umbriel suddenly backed away.

"I want them to be happy," she said, looking between Crowley and Aziraphale. "Being with their creator would make the humans happy, wouldn't it?"

Aziraphale nodded reluctantly while Crowley remained still.

"But then it'll stop, it will all just _stop," _Umbriel said, growing flustered. "There won't be any more of them. I know that there are a lot now, but … but what if they stop being born and … and what if there's a human who could be funny. Like _really, really _funny? Or one that's incredibly smart and figures out the whole 'cold fusion' thing. What if there's one that can bring all the others together in peace, or one that's got a knack for making the best queso anyone has ever had?!"

"That one," Crowley said, pointing at the Guardian. "I want to meet that one."

"It wouldn't be fair!" Umbriel continued, her voice rising. "It wouldn't be fair for them not to exist! It wouldn't be fair for them to never experience the bad things so that they'll know just how _good _the good things are. The Almighty loves them! The Almighty loves them _so much, _I don't think she would ever want those experiences all to end!"

"Umbriel," Aziraphale said, his voice soft. Umbriel regarded the angel in surprise as if she had forgotten he was there.

"I think you understand where Crowley and I are coming from," Aziraphale said gently. "But we want you to be certain if you're going to make such a monumental decision. I have no intention of you coming to any harm, my dear, but there's still … that possibility."

"Havin' your soul obliterated can be a bitch," Crowley added helpfully. Aziraphale's eyes went wide, mouthing the word 'stop' as he elbowed the demon.

"I just want to make sure she's aware," Crowley said in defense. "_'Coming to harm' _could mean something like a paper cut, to you lot."

"'_Our lot'_ is perfectly capable of insinuating the true meaning behind the statement, thank you," Aziraphale said with an air of offence. "You're acting as if we haven't been walking the face of God's green earth for the past few thousand years."

"OK – _reaching," _Crowley said, lifting a finger. "All I'm saying is – sometimes you can jump to the wrong conclusions cuz you're always looking on the bright side. When the term 'friendly fire'came about, you thought humans had invented a type of flame that wouldn't scald you."

"It sounded _convenient!" _Aziraphale protested. "I thought it had something to do with that 'microwave'contraption that had just come out."

Crowley tilted his head with a sneer. "You said, 'thank you' when someone told you that you were 'all fur coat and no knickers.'"

Aziraphale scoffed. "Why you even remember that, I have no idea," he said, a pink hint to his ears. "And fur was very fashionable at the time; I was under the impression they were saying I looked comfy."

"What about the time I said that them building a new convenience store just down the street from the old one was, 'about as useful as a chocolate teapot?'" Crowley said, his smile widening. "You insisted that I tell you where you could get one."

"Well, I didn't think you actually put _tea _in it – that would be ridiculous," Aziraphale said with a dismissive wave. "I just thought it was a rather novel –"

Aziraphale's eyes landed on Umbriel. She wasn't making a peep, but tears were again falling down her cheeks.

"Oh, oh no," Aziraphale said, flustered. "Crowley, look what you did."

Crowley raised his eyebrows. He wasn't sure how far down the hill he'd be able to chuck the angel, but it didn't mean he couldn't speculate.

"Human," Umbriel muttered.

Aziraphale frowned as he tried to comprehend the statement. He turned to look over his shoulder, wondering if Umbriel had spotted someone, but swaying grass and dancing shadows from the tree line were the only things that disturbed the otherwise still scene.

"You're human," Umbriel whispered.

Crowley recognized the clouded, far-away look in her eyes – he equated it to a computer rebooting after a system update. He hoped this one included a patch that would stop the Guardian from crying all the bloody time, although there was more genuine concern behind the sentiment than he would ever admit.

Clarity seemed to return to Umbriel before she spoke in a voice much firmer than before.

"I'll stand with you."

Aziraphale was at a loss for words. The angel was torn between getting the answer he wanted and the unexpected baggage that had come with it. Similar to five years prior, Aziraphale hated the idea of having to ponder over if he was, in fact, doing the right thing.

Watching his friend tugging at the cuffs of his sleeves in a worrying fashion, Crowley was prompted to step up.

"Great, we'll have a shin-dig. Let's go home."

Crowley turned away and sauntered carelessly toward the car. Aziraphale watched him go in disbelief. He turned back to Umbriel to apologize, but found that she was nodding in solemn agreement.

Perhaps it helped for it to be as simple as that.

"Ah, yes, let's … let's clean up," Aziraphale said.

Umbriel automatically got to her knees and began collecting the empty glasses. Something in the back of his mind squirmed in a worrying fashion, but the higher angel didn't have time to dwell on the fact before Crowley's stereo dutifully informed them that fat-bottomed girls made the world go round.

Crowley grunted, fiddling with the radio.

"Go on, find something sappy for the feather duster."

'_And I would do anything for love_

_I'd run right into hell and back'_

Crowley let out an exasperated sigh, but withdrew his hand from the knob. He folded his arms over the roof of the car and watched as his companions stacked items into Umbriel's picnic basket.

"You could help, you know," Aziraphale said, shooting the demon a disapproving glance.

"I am helping," Crowley countered, leaning his chin on his wrist. "Moral support."

There are certain looks you can only exchange with a person you've known for over six thousand years. This look sent a shiver down Crowley's spine and prompted him to break his gaze with the angel.

'_And some days it don't come easy_

_And some days it don't come hard_

_Some days it don't come at all, and these are the days that never end'_

Aziraphale dumped the water out of the bucket and nestled it among the wine glasses before topping it with the folded blanket. He had seen out of the corner of his eye that Umbriel had stacked the empty lunch boxes before getting to her feet. He looked up to take them from her grasp, but was surprised to find she had stepped toward the edge of the hill as she gazed into the night. She remained in one spot, but seemed to be moving in an odd motion as if she were having trouble keeping her balance.

"Umb–"

The angel flinched from the low hiss that came from behind him. He watched in confusion as Crowley silently snaked around the car and crouched at his side.

'_And maybe I'm crazy, oh it's crazy and it's true_

_I know you can save me, no-one else can save me now but you'_

"Stuff it, angel," Crowley whispered. "Let her have this."

"Have _what?_" Aziraphale said, worry taking over him again. "What is she doing?"

"I thought it was obvious," Crowley said, shrugging. "She's dancing."

Aziraphale's blue eyes widened in amazement. For a moment he watched Umbriel continue to sway – her regular movements reminiscent of the pendulum in his grandfather clock. For the first time since their picnic had been bathed in moonlight, the angel smiled.

"She is, isn't she?"

Aziraphale regarded the lesser angel with a loving expression as she continued to rock back and forth.

"She's very special," Aziraphale said, his voice barely audible above the music.

"Hopefully not too special," Crowley replied. Aziraphale's eyes left Umbriel to regard Crowley in confusion.

"Why do you say that?"

"We're going to need more like her if we want to stand a chance, aren't we?" Crowley said.

Aziraphale's expression turned pensive. He took a deep breath, his demeanor growing more determined as he regarded Umbriel and the night sky that stretched out endlessly before her.

"Alright," Crowley said, putting his hands on his knees as he straightened up. He tilted his head back and forth to pop his neck before stepping up to Umbriel. He paused halfway to touching her shoulder, deciding that risking anymore of her weird 'touchy-feely' powers wasn't something he wanted to deal with at the moment. Instead, he followed her gaze toward the stars.

'_As long as the planets are turning_

_As long as the stars are burning'_

"You should visit a few of the nebulas," Crowley said, putting his hands in his pockets. "You said you're a fan of colorful things, feather duster. There are nebulas out there that would knock your hideous socks off."

The corners of Umbriel's lips lifted for a moment before her neutral expression returned. She kept her gaze firmly locked on the night sky as she spoke.

"I'm sure they're lovely, but I would never want to be that far from the Almighty's children."

"Who said anything about that?" Crowley said. "Give the humans enough time, and I'm sure they'll get there. We'll be fighting for a chance for them to see all those colors up close, won't we?"

The question appeared to be rhetorical as Crowley left her side and made his way back the way he came. Umbriel turned to watch him, the demon not bothering to look back as he lifted his arm to motion Aziraphale to get in the car.

'_As long as the wheels are turning_

_As long as the fires are burning_

_As long as your prayers are coming true_

_You'd better believe it, that I would do_

_Anything for love!_

_And you know it's true and that's a fact'_

"Come on," Crowley snapped. "I've got better things to do than be out here with all of God's blasted creatures."

Umbriel smiled. She stepped through the grass, completely unaware that she had performed the somewhat notable act of being the second angel to ever truly indulge themselves in the art of dance. It was no gavotte, but thankfully not a lot of things were.

'_Will you cater to every fantasy I got?_

_Will you hose me down with holy water, if I get too hot?_

_Will you take me places I've never known?'_

"Oh, it's not all that bad," Aziraphale said, smiling at the demon while accepting the lunch boxes from Umbriel's outstretched hands. "I think it's rather nice out this evening, mon chou."

The lesser angel raised her eyebrows in a questioning manner at the new term of endearment. Aziraphale responded with a finger over his lips and a wink before turning away.

Umbriel chuckled, making sure she was looking elsewhere when she got into the backseat and Crowley adjusted the rearview mirror to regard her with a raised brow.

'_I won't do that_

_No, I won't do that_

_Anything for love_

_But I won't do that'_

·◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊·

The garage underneath the building housing Crowley's flat was one of his favorite places to be. It was cool, it was quiet, and since the residents of the imposing skyrise were generally of the affluent nature, it was choked to the brim with classic cars in excellent condition.

One of said cars, a 1964 Aston Martin DB5 in a metallic silver, had caused the demon to come to an abrupt halt midway to the elevators. It was a new addition to the family of pampered vehicles, and from where it was parked, Crowley deduced that it belonged to the young CFO, Steve, who lived in the flat three levels down from his own.

Crowley traced his hand along the sleek roof and hood of the car in a tender way that would make onlookers blush. His fingers itched to pop open the hood and take a gander at the engine, but doing any further manhandling of another person's car without their permission was strictly taboo in Crowley's book.

A demon has to draw the line _somewhere._

And so Crowley was left with only speculation on whether the vehicle sported a 4-liter inline 6 engine and if that wanker Steve knew how to slot the box in the right gear without damaging the transmission. He had a feeling the answer was no, and lamented that he'd now how to periodically skulk about the garage until Steve would one morning set foot outside the elevator toward his impending doom. Well, if you consider attempting to politely pry yourself from an almost hour-long lecture concerning choke levers and disc brakes in order to have a semblance of being able to make it to work on time to be doom.

"Oh, right," Crowley said aloud. The security guard reading a magazine in the nearby booth didn't bother to look up. He was well aware that whenever Mr. Crowley was speaking, that it was never to him (most likely because Crowley informed him of this matter himself, putting forth that this statement was the only exception). And so, their exchange as Crowley pulled out his phone was little more than an absent nod, which the eccentric Mr. Crowley repaid with a rather generous tip.

'Steve whatever that lives in my building'

Crowley's thumbs flew over the bright screen as he waited for the elevator.

'Time he gets home'

Crowley hit send. He slid the phone back into his pocket and lifted his head as the elevator emitted a cheerful 'ding.' He pressed the button for his floor and leaned back against the mirror-like surface of the contraption as he waited for the doors to close. His phone buzzed, and he lifted it up to his face.

'Why? :('

Crowley exhaled in exasperation. He mumbled to himself as the elevator lurched and he typed his reply.

'Borrow a cup of sugar

Talk about the weather

Bitch about a barking dog

Normal neighbor stuff'

Crowley was quite aware of where his level of sass would get him, but he couldn't help himself. It was just too easy.

The reply came as the elevator doors opened at the lobby level and a woman in a deep-purple track suit joined Crowley with a friendly smile before selecting the floor five levels above his own. Crowley raised his brows, wondering if she was that one designer or another he'd overheard the receptionists talking about last week, before the buzz from his phone reminded him that he didn't really care all that much.

'WHY?! PLEASE DON'T HURT STEVEN'

"Jesus Christ," Crowley grumbled. His companion was somewhat startled when he emitted a sound halfway between a cough and a hiccup after the swear.

'IT'S ABOUT HIS DAMN CAR JUST TELL ME WHEN HE GETS HOME'

Crowley continued to mutter expletives under his breath as he stuffed the phone back in his pocket. His companion suddenly reached out to select a floor about 15 levels down from her original destination, deciding that now would be as good a time as any to pop in and visit one of her neighbors who was statistically less likely to be on the brink of some sort of raging fit.

When the woman in the purple track suit had exited the elevator in an 'I'm-trying-not-to-scamper-away-but-really-I-am-super-scampering-away' fashion, Crowley watched her go in disinterest before the doors slid shut. His phone informed him of a new message.

'Mr. Aziraphale says I shouldn't tell you unless you promise that you're not planning on drawing lewd things on a neighbor's car'

There was a pause, followed by another message.

'Again'

"Seriously, what do you even do here?" Crowley said aloud, making a face that would have had both angels furrowing their brows in annoyance had they been present to see it.

Crowley had come to accept Umbriel's stance on joining Aziraphale and himself in the war against Heaven and Hell (whenever that may be). However, like his very early predictions on the matter, Umbriel had been less than helpful in the effort.

Unlike demons, who tended to work together in (somewhat shaky) alliances in order to get certain temptations done, angels tended to act independently. This was a fact that Crowley wasn't aware of until told outright, although in retrospect it made quite a bit of sense.

Back when Crowley first started approaching Aziraphale with requests to work together, he hadn't been so much surprised by the refusal of the suggestion, but the level of offense that came with it. He had chalked it up to moral outrage – which was true in part – but he had been unaware that angels took a level of pride in being able to handle situations on their own. Asking for help was a sign that they were not fit to carry out the duty that God had assigned them, and as a result it wasn't unusual for angels (or at least the few tiers that Aziraphale had experience with) to spend millennia between addressing each other.

Every now and then, an Archangel would descend to Earth to convey orders to a Principality or a Guardian before buggering off as if they'd catch fleas from the very idea of being on Earth for more than a hot minute. This was how Gabriel had been the only angel Aziraphale had spoken to between The Garden and the events five years prior, and how Uriel had been the only Archangel to address Umbriel _ever. _Other than Aziraphale, Umbriel could count on one hand the number of times she ran into another angel, and all of those incidents had been polite greetings before heading on their way.

When Umbriel said before that Aziraphale must have been lonely, she wasn't kidding.

Crowley may not have _liked _most of the demons he had to deal with, but he at least had others to talk to. As a result, he never cared much for making company with humans; or at least not on the same level that Aziraphale did. It all made much more sense now – the book clubs, the restaurants, the dancing, and the overall fascination with human nature boiled down to Aziraphale struggling to make a connection. 'Going native' was the only avenue he had if he didn't want to perpetually live with the idea that humans were creatures to simply be revered like a precious commodity, and that his personal life should be akin to a shut-in.

Even without all that business with the almost apocalypse, Aziraphale had been lucky to strike up a friendship with Crowley, in the demon's opinion. Aziraphale probably would have existed in a content, mellow nature otherwise, but things would have been rather dull without someone to relate to on some level and periodically keep him on his toes. He would have lived his life like Umbriel, who up until very recently never had anyone to confide in concerning worries or doubts, remark about that irritable itch occasionally popping up around the shoulder blades from where the wings normally go, or reminisce about the time before light pollution when the sky was so full of stars you could look up at them all night and never count them all.

In the end, Umbriel didn't have a single other angel she knew well enough to recommend for their cause. Normally, Crowley would have proudly shoved this fact in Aziraphale's face after the angel's insistence that Umbriel would be helpful.

But for some reason, he didn't have the heart to.

Crowley's phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen as he stepped onto his floor.

'Around 8pm Mon-Thurs

He likes cronuts

Will probably talk more if you bring him those'

"Was that really so hard?" Crowley said, although not unkindly. He raised his eyes and immediately stopped in his tracks.

Fun fact: demons have a tendency to be … less than subtle. Crowley also had trouble in this department, if getting many of his targets outright sloshed before convincing them to do any wrongdoing wasn't enough of a clue.

You know that one friend you had in college who would goad you into going to a party instead of studying, or encouraging you to blow off your shift at the kabob joint to play _just one more _round of Mario Kart?

Generally speaking, demons are like that.

Anyone with more than one brain cell can see that these are bad choices. Occasionally giving in to these temptations doesn't write your soul off as being eternally damned, but it does open the door for repeating certain immoral behaviors and escalating the severity of those instances. Next thing you know, you're sitting in a bath of boiling sulfur for all eternity and Bob's your uncle.

It was the rare demon indeed that could act with a level of finesse to pull off temptations that would drive a human to commit a deed so horrible and outside of their normal tendencies that their soul would be incapable of ever finding salvation. A demon of this nature would be more clever, cunning, charming, charismatic, and a host of other 'C' words than most. And at the moment, a demon who fit that mold was lying in wait for Crowley in his apartment.

Luckily for Crowley, the aforementioned definition of the adversary who was planning to dupe him was a self-proclaimed title. In reality, it was a complete load of bollocks.

"If you broke a single thing in here, I swear to both God and Satan that I will personally strangle you with your entrails over the balcony," Crowley stated as the metal doors to his apartment swung open. One of the doors had been slightly askew when he arrived, the intruder either being too dumb or too weak to push it back all the way before running to hide.

"Oh, Mr. Crowley," a voice said. Crowley's cleaning lady, Annette, stepped out from where she had been wiping down the counter in the kitchen. She was a petite woman, with delicate features and fiery-orange hair that stood out against her pale skin. "You're usually not home so early."

"Nope," Crowley said, swooping in to wrap his hand around the woman's neck. The demon lifted up her small frame, slamming the maid against the chrome refrigerator with enough force to jostle the bottles inside.

"Mr. … Mr. Crowley," Annette gasped, her small hands clawing at his arm as her eyes bulged. Crowley watched her with a blank expression as she struggled.

"I … I can't brea–"

Annette gasped, her face turning red. Tears streamed down her flushed cheeks and her struggling intensified. Her breaths were short and sharp as a purple hue touched her lips.

"You're going to …" Annette said, her eyes losing focus. "You'll kill her if–"

"Then get the fuck out of my cleaning lady," Crowley snarled. He tossed the woman aside, her limp body hitting the floor with a loud 'smack.' Her figure remained still for a moment before she suddenly pushed herself up onto her elbows and began to cough.

"Do you _know _how hard it is to find a good cleaning lady who's up to my standards?" Crowley said, grabbing Annette's arm and dragging her into the living room.

"Annette never asked questions. Annette was always gone by the time I came home, and only cleaned when she knew I wasn't around. Annette wouldn't snoop, and Annette wouldn't nick any of the alcohol for herself; although, I wouldn't judge her too harshly if she did."

Crowley tossed Annette over the back of the couch, the woman tumbling over it and landing in a heap on the other side.

"Damn, Crowley. You know the woman is possessed, no need to be so rough," Annette said, groaning as she sat up.

"But for all Annette's desirable qualities," Crowley said, returning to the kitchen, "she was still dimwitted enough to leave herself open for possession."

Crowley perused through the fridge for a moment before producing a bottle of pinot noir. With nothing more than a look, the cork popped loose and Crowley yanked it out the rest of the way. He lifted the bottle to take a long swig.

"Stay right where you are," Crowley warned as he lowered the bottle. The woman had begun to slink her way along the couch before regarding Crowley like a deer caught in headlights. Crowley let out a disappointed sigh, waving his arms.

"At least tell me she did something impressive to make herself worthy of a demonic possession," he said in an almost pleading tone. "Sacrificed a goat? Purposely wore a cursed amulet? Meddled with the Necronomicon? Anything, _anything, _but using a bloody Ouija board."

Annette's expression turned sheepish. Crowley groaned, guzzling more wine.

"There's no way that's good for you," Annette said, regarding Crowley with a look between disgust and amazement.

"No one asked for your opinion, _Annette," _Crowley spat. He stalked toward her, the woman cowering as he approached.

"Now what the hell do you want?" Crowley asked, ripping his sunglasses off with his free hand. "And if you're just some daft twat who thought you could be some sort of hero by killing me, then you'll _wish _that the worst thing I could do to you is torture you while you're tied to this body. I may be out of practice, but I used to be rather good at flaying. Or bad; whichever is the most unpleasant."

Crowley was lying, but luckily his reputation had been a bit _inflated _through the gossip networks of Hell.

Annette sank into the couch, cowering before the nearly-suffocating aura emitting from the greater demon. She fought to put her focus anywhere but the yellow, slitted eyes seemingly boring into her subconscious, but found that she couldn't look away.

"I was just watching!" Annette yelped. "I wasn't gonna do anything until it showed up, I swear!"

"Until what showed up?" Crowley said, circling the couch. Annette tried to scramble away, but Crowley grabbed a fistful of her hair and forcefully pushed her back into a sitting position.

"The sword! Or the dagger! Whatever the hell it is now!" Annette shouted, fidgeting in his grasp. Crowley regarded in her in confusion, trying to put together what she meant.

"What bloody sword?" Crowley asked. "I don't even have the one from the 14th century anymore – I hated that stupid thing and everything involved with that goddamned era."

"The flaming one!" Annette said, holding up her hands. "The ones the angels reforged to make it more discrete, or something. They handed it off to their man who's supposed to gut you before doing the same to the newly fallen angel with the bookshop."

Crowley moved in a blur. He lifted Annette up by the cuff of her shirt, the woman staring back at him in terror.

"Aziraphale has not _fallen," _Crowley said slowly. "Say that again and I can guarantee that the only use I'll have left for you is making you feel as much pain as possible."

"Fine! Fine!" Annette squeaked. Crowley opened his hand, the woman crumpling to the floor. He turned away in contemplation as he mulled over the information. His stride came to a sudden stop. The vein along his temple twitched to accent his clenched jaw. Crowley slowly turned back to Annette as the woman struggled to her feet amid a twisted ankle.

"'_Their man,'_" Crowley hissed, serpentine pupils dilating. "Who is 'their man?'"

"Dunno," Annette said. She backed away as Crowley took a threatening step forward.

"I swear!" Annette interjected. "I've been spending the last few months tempting Annette to finally muck about with the old Ouija board she found in the attic. Hastur was gonna to have my skin if I didn't have her prepped by the time the sword popped up, so I haven't had a chance to touch base with the others before getting Annette into position!"

The vein at Crowley's temple twitched again as he stared down the lesser demon. His hand flexed at his side as if he wished for nothing more than to wrap his fingers again around Annette's throat. Annette swallowed hard and attempted to move into a defensive stance.

"So the Archangels' 'man,'" Crowley said, unmoving. "You're saying that they have this sword in their possession?"

"Y-yeah," Annette replied. "They've been undercover for a little while now, waiting for the right time. They handed a few reports about you and the … err … _other guy_ over to the brass upstairs, but it sounds like they didn't have anything good enough in 'em to take you lot down, so the Archangels got antsy and made some new weapon."

"It's not new, the flaming sword," Crowley said. He raised his hand and Annette instinctively twitched. But the demon only reached into his breast pocket to produce a pair of sunglasses. He slid the spectacles onto his nose, the lesser demon exhaling in relief.

"And what was your whole job supposed to be, then?" Crowley asked. "The Archangels' _man _was supposed to take care of me and the angel on their own, right? What the hell are you for?"

"Ah, yeah, that …" Annette looked about in a nervous fashion. "I was _supposed _to kill the angels' guy after they got to you and take the dagger back to headquarters. A weapon like that could be very beneficial to our side, you know?"

"I'm not on 'your side,'" Crowley spat. He craned his head about, finding the bottle of wine he had set down toward the side of the couch. Crowley lifted it to his lips and took a swig.

"So, um," Annette said, watching Crowley with a nervous smile. "What will you be doing with me, then?"

Crowley slowly lowered the bottle. He regarded it with a blank expression, keeping his attention on it as he spoke.

"Just bugger off."

Annette didn't move for a moment, attempting to decipher if the statement may have been some sort of trick. She cautiously started to back away and climb over the couch when Crowley spoke again.

"Wait."

Annette froze, one leg dangling over the back of the sofa as she regarded Crowley with a wide-eyed expression.

"You're _certain_ that the Archangels' agent won't make a move against the angel until they've gotten to me first?"

"Oh yeah, probably," Annette said. "You know how _their lot_ are. They would want you as an example and try to show the other guy _mercy _to see if he repents. They might still stick 'em, knowing them, but I think they're top priority is to get you out of the picture. That's why my orders weren't to go for the dagger until _after _their guy got to you first. The angels would lose their shit, otherwise."

Annette's eyes grew wide in astonishment as the dreaded demon Crowley appeared to deflate. Crowley fell heavily onto the couch, his head in in hand as he massaged his temples.

"Out."

"Oh! Right," Annette said. She flopped over to the other side of the couch and jogged to the door. She looked back to shoot Crowley a quizzical expression before she turned and disappeared.

Crowley would never see Annette again, the woman coming to her senses in an ambulance after a good samaritan spotted her passed out in an alleyway less than half an hour later. Annette wouldn't be able to recount anything that had happened to her over the past few days, and her career trajectory would take a sharp turn from cleaning to nursing after meeting a certain nurse, Lauren, who would snatch her heart away. Lauren covering her coworker's shift at the last minute just so happened to be a product of a certain Guardian Angel's meddling, although said Guardian had an odd blank spot in her memory concerning _what, _exactly, had happened to poor Annette that landed her in the hospital.

During all this, however, there was a demon sitting alone in his large, empty apartment with no one to talk to but a half-empty bottle of pinot noir. Well, there were the house plants, but at the moment Crowley couldn't work up the energy to shout. It was like an invisible weight had attached itself to his shoulders, pushing him down as if trying to force him back into the world of pain and suffering and hellfire where he supposedly belonged.

"Again."

It was hard to put into words, the first time it happened. He had believed something so entirely – the emotion woven into the fabric of everything he was. When that trust had been broken, he felt every microscopic fiber being pulled away, each break tearing him to pieces until there was next to nothing left.

But he picked up the tattered shreds, and he wove them back together the best way he could. The work was clumsy and unpolished, and he figured it wouldn't get him far, but he had to start from somewhere. He needed to keep going. He needed to see.

He needed to keep asking questions.

And then he asked another question that would lead to more pain down the line.

'_Didn't you have a flaming sword?'_

The angel's answer did him in. Despite what happened before, a seed had been planted and started to grow. It took centuries – _millennia __– _but trust had wormed its way back in to what was left of the demon's soul.

It was a beautiful, precious thing that reminded him of something long lost that he was never getting back. There was no denying that it was a replacement, yet as the human invention of time went on, it became unique in its own way. It was more tangible, and the element of the other party in the arrangement also having something at stake brought along its own intrigue. He also justified the arrangement knowing that if anything were to happen, it would be impossible for it to hurt anywhere near as much as before.

Crowley hadn't been wrong, but it did get much closer than expected.

'_There is no 'our side!''_

Aziraphale's eyes had gone wide, and he insisted that the two of them were never friends, much less associated with each other in any way.

Crowley never let on how much that one had gutted him. He was sure that the angel knew, though, and he let his friend make up for it in his own way. Their bond had been strained, but never fully broken, which certainly helped to make things easier in the end. And for some time, he hadn't felt that he needed to crawl his way up alone; a hand had been offered to help him along. For a short while now, Crowley had even been under the impression that his was _rising. _It was a ridiculous notion, if anything, but it was better for him to cling to than nothing.

And when the opportunity presented itself, for a reason he had trouble isolating, he offered his hand to another.

Well, maybe not the entire thing, but even just a finger was a lot for the likes of him.

Crowley never imagined that he could do what Aziraphale could; that he could actually help someone up. But watching the angel had compelled him to try.

And then it had been that pit that had done him in; seeing his own reflection in green eyes when a touch transported him to the familiar, agonizing, sea of suffocating dread. She was like him, even if her despair was a drop in the bucket compared to actually falling … she understood.

And a thread had been woven. It was short, and not much to write home about, but it was only the third one of its kind that had existed. And it, too, was precious.

Or had been.

"You," Crowley growled, his grip on the bottle tightening.

"You," he repeated. He stood, lifting the bottle back over his shoulder. Wine dribbled down with a lazy glug, the demon seemingly unconcerned as it ran over his suit and pooled around his feet.

"YOU GODDAMNED SNAKE!"

The irony of the statement was not lost on Crowley.

The bottle shattered into a thousand black shards as it slammed against the window. Crowley heaved, regarding the liquid as it dripped down, painting the skyline blood-red.

"That's my job!" Crowley shouted. He ripped a cushion from the couch, throwing it after the wine bottle. Throwing the cushion was far less satisfying, but it didn't stop Crowley from reaching for another.

"STABBING PEOPLE IN THE BACK IS SUPPOSED TO BE MY FUCKING JOB!"

Crowley turned on his heel, the wine-soaked rug squelching beneath his feet. A trail of damp footprints followed him toward the door, but the marks suddenly dissipated as a sharp rise in temperature caused the liquid to evaporate.

An enraged roar echoed from the hallway as the hem of the demon's black jacket whipped around the corner. The metal doors slammed with enough force to rattle the entire landing and knock the hanging rack loose, transforming the sleek floors into a glittering spectacle of broken glass.


	5. Chapter 5

"Oh, Crowley! I'm glad you're here."

The angel had been sitting at the cluttered desk (as if it were ever anything but) near the front of the shop, fiddling with something behind a short stack of books. The scene was reminiscent of a schoolchild creating a makeshift fort to keep out the prying eyes of his instructor and classmates before assaulting them with an array of spitballs to the back of the neck.

Aziraphale's eyes were alight as his hands worked. Whatever he was doing must have been of some importance, since he had failed to open up shop in alignment with his posted hours. Although, what the angel considered to be a vital excuse to do so was on an entirely different level than most.

An impish smile accented laugh lines that had been built over centuries, contradicting themselves as they only made the angel appear juvenile in his unbridled delight. Hands disappeared behind a tan tweed jacket, and in a few hurried steps Aziraphale stood before Crowley. The demon's sunglasses were pulling double duty as they dampened an effect which for humans would be the blinding, contagious desire to call their mother, put a petty argument with the neighbor to rest, or voluntarily spend their lunch hour helping the new intern out with sorting quarterly financial charts.

Aziraphale would later regret that he hadn't noticed it before, but at the time the demon's blank expression didn't immediately compel him to be suspicious. In fact, he was currently quite pleased – the look was a step up from the grimaces and eyes rolls that usually came arm-in-arm with this particular pastime.

"Well, actually, you should be glad _I'm _here," Aziraphale said, "because …"

Crowley may as well have been carved in stone for all the reaction he expressed as a hand reached up and grasped at something over his right shoulder.

"You seemed to have a bit of _chocolate _in your ear!" Aziraphale exclaimed, pulling back to flourish a gold coin the size of his palm. "I can only _imagine_ your day! If you had strolled through the park, you would have seen the ducks opening up their little bills without a peep and thought, '_Ah, have I lost my marbles?'"_

Aziraphale chuckled. "Oh! Or perhaps you went to the bakery, but when it came time to order a danish, you ended up getting raspberry when you ever so wanted the apple because you couldn't make out a single word anyone was saying and were too polite to ask them to repeat themselves. Oh dear, I'm sure that must have been very troubling, wasn't it?"

Crowley didn't appear taken in by the angel's glowing expression. Aziraphale waited for a reaction, a line forming between his brows as the force holding up his cheeks grew more voluntary.

"Where is she?" Crowley said. The flat tone was a surprise, and Aziraphale's smile faltered. He slid the gleaming coin into a pocket and was more than a little put out that Crowley didn't appear to be in the mood to humor him. The angel's response to being slighted was to use the same clipped, strained politeness used on customers who were lingering in the shop after closing (some of which could hardly be blamed, if the doors had opened less than half an hour prior).

"Umbriel, I take it? I believe she's out performing miracles as she normally does late afternoon."

Footfalls dampened by a floor that was in need of a good sweep (or miracle) to pick up wayward piles of paper confetti followed Aziraphale as he briskly made his way back to the small desk. He began to organize the piles of cloth, colorful paper cutouts, and foam balls scattered over the mahogany surface with the care of someone doing a task more for show than actual necessity. His tone was brisk as he kept his eyes averted.

"I was killing time by brushing up on some of my old magic tricks to show her when she gets back. I'm getting back into the swing of it, and I think I'm _almost_ to the point where I can do the dove trick without the creature … erm … _temporarily _perishing."

The excitement from a sudden idea pushed away any and all attempts at giving the demon the cold shoulder.

"Just a moment!" the angel exclaimed, holding up a finger as he scurried toward the back of the shop. "Allow me to fetch Oscar and I'm sure that you will be _quite _impressed!"

"Did you know?" Crowley asked. He had finally moved, if only to tilt his head to follow the angel's trajectory.

The question caused Aziraphale to pause, his hand resting on the doorframe to the back room. He waited for Crowley to elaborate, but the only sound to fill the silence was Oscar's placid cooing. His old friend appearing abnormally subdued caused the smile to fall entirely from Aziraphale's face.

"Know?" Aziraphale said, his eyes drifting over Crowley as he tried to read the demon's expression. "Know what, mon chou?"

"Umbriel," Crowley said. He willed himself into motion, taking slow steps forward and cocking his head as he stared at the angel. "Did you know she's been reporting on us? _Spying _on us?"

"S-spying?" Aziraphale said. A sensation like a drop of cold water ran down his spine as Crowley approached. A thick aura was slowly taking over the bookshop – it caused the lamps to dim and the air to grow thick in a way that made Aziraphale think he may need to grow gills in order to survive. Crowley had certainly been upset before, but the act was previously accented with a fair bit of flailing, screaming, and name calling. It was hard to know what to make of the odd _stillness _now hanging around the demon.

"N-no, I know nothing of the sort," Aziraphale replied. He tugged at the lapels on his jacket, standing a little straighter as the act seemed to give him courage. "I know nothing about it, because there is nothing _to know _about it, Crowley."

"So you've asked her?" Crowley said. He began to stalk about Aziraphale akin to a large jungle cat toying with its pretty.

"Well, no," Aziraphale admitted, craning his head to keep track of Crowley. "I told her she can simply tell me when it happens."

"Funny," Crowley said, no humor behind the statement. "Because I've picked up a rumor that there've been numerous reports on our activities with the sole intention of finding our weaknesses."

Aziraphale smiled as if Crowley made a distasteful joke.

"Codswallop!" the angel exclaimed. "You know Umbriel would never do such a thing. And even if she did, I'm sure she would have a good reason not to mention it."

"Oh, I'm sure she has a very good reason," Crowley said, coming to a stop. He leaned forward, his face only inches from the angel's. "Keeping you in the dark for as long as possible before gutting you like a fish is probably an exceptional reason to keep things hush hush."

Aziraphale took a step back, regarding Crowley with a horrified expression. "W-what? Crowley, what in God's good name has come over you?"

"Knowledge," Crowley said, once again closing the distance. The demon invading his personal space wasn't normally a thing that bothered him, but now Aziraphale felt the almost instinctual urge to back away. Something about Crowley screamed "demon" more than it ever had before, and Aziraphale was shocked to find his old friend's demeanor almost unrecognizable. The mirthless chuckle escaping Crowley's lips caused a jarring pang in the angel's heart.

"Knowledge," Crowley repeated. "That's the bloody thing that seems to cause a whole lot of problems around here, innit?"

It was clear that by "here" the demon meant far more than just the bookshop.

"Crowley," Aziraphale said, his voice taking on the concerned, somewhat urgent tone of talking a jumper down from a ledge.

"Let's … let's discuss this over some tea. Ah, yes. I'll make a pot. Just have a seat and … and collect your thoughts. I'll be back in a moment, mon chou."

There was never an intention to wait for a reply. Aziraphale was ashamed of the level of relief he felt when entering the kitchen a moment later and being out of sight of that dark, unyielding gaze. He took a deep breath as he collected himself, his attention fluttering about as if an unseen force had swept through and rearranged every facet of the room.

Well, that actually _had _happened, upon further recollection – although the force had been very visible. In fact, it would have been more unusual if you had missed it. It was a force with curly hair held at bay by a neon pink bandanna as an even brighter pair of yellow gloves organized the volumes of cookbooks crammed into the cupboards that Aziraphale hadn't bothered to touch in centuries. Every now and then, a teasing quip would escape the force's lips concerning if Aziraphale even knew how to turn on the stove (which he did, thank you – It was the oven that gave him trouble).

"It's not … no. It can't be. She wouldn't …"

Aziraphale took another breath, banishing the thought from his mind. He put all of his focus on filling the silver kettle with fresh water and setting it on its stand. After a minute of staring at the delft blue sugar jar across the room as if it had all the answers, he recalled that the kettle wasn't on and promptly flipped the switch.

As the water came to a boil, Aziraphale fell into the old habit of opening the cabinets at random to locate a wayward pack of biscuits. There had never been any rhyme or reason to it, before; the angel normally just stowing them away where he deemed it convenient. When he eventually came across them, however, all the boxes were neatly stacked together and organized by type. They had been in alphabetical order, the first time around, but the higher angel insisted that it was an inappropriate way to catalog tea snacks. It seemed that the irony of his statement compared to how the biscuits had previously been categorized (or lack thereof) had been lost, and that moment had been the first time he elicited a look from the Guardian that was less "adoration" and more "bemusement."

Aziraphale moved a few of the shiny, crinkly packages aside and pulled out a box of madeleines. He regarded the cookies with a far firmer expression than what they rightly deserved, even taking into account their level of calories and sugar.

"No. No. Absolutely not. It's alright, it's alright."

A few minutes later, Aziraphale swept out of the kitchen with an air of defiance that didn't rightly fit someone carrying a tea set and sweets. But the steadfast nature of the angel faltered as he couldn't immediately spot Crowley between the aisles of books. The angel raised his eyes; there was only one other place the demon could have gone.

By the time he reached the top of the stairs, Aziraphale had given up all hope on appearing intimidating. Brandishing teacups with little blue flowers and having stairs squeak lightly under one's steps made that point a little harder to get across, as it turned out.

Crowley had unconsciously found himself sitting at the small table near the window in the same spot the Guardian had been a few months prior. Physically, the differences were like night and day – one had appeared like a maypole with a straight back and an array of colors, the other closer to a sheet of ebony cloth that had been haphazardly tossed into a pile. Said pile pushed his upper body off the table as the angel filled the space with a silver tray.

Aziraphale filled one of the teacups, handing it to Crowley. His friend wrapped a hand around the steaming cup as if the handle were merely a suggestion instead of a requirement. The familiarity tugged at the corner of the angel's mouth and he let out the breath he hadn't realized he had been holding.

The scene was _almost _normal; the two of them taking in the smell of old leather, the ticking of the grandfather clock, and the simple pleasure of each other's company between sips of Darjeeling tea. But anticipation hung heavy in the air like the humidity on a grey afternoon. There was a hint of something electric, as if a bright flash followed by a deafening crack loomed less than an arm's length away.

"She's been given the sword, angel. The flaming one."

China clinked as a teacup became reacquainted with its matching saucer. Aziraphale fiddled with his cup, rotating it about as if he were carefully screwing in a light bulb.

"_My _sword, you mean?" Aziraphale asked, trying, and failing, to keep his voice steady.

"Modified, from what I hear, but yeah," Crowley said. "_Your _sword."

Aziraphale cocked his head, narrowing his eyes. Suspicion didn't suit him well, and the look would have been comical had his companion been in a different mood. "Where in the world did you hear this?" he asked.

"Annette," Crowley said simply. An arm was draped over the back of his chair and he regarded the angel with a steady expression as if that were all the explanation required.

"Annette?" Aziraphale said, trying to pull up a face to the name. He failed, having never met the woman, but it didn't stop something from clicking into place. "Isn't your cleaning lady named Annette?"

"S'long story," Crowley replied. He picked up his cup, changed his mind, and set it back down. "That part doesn't matter. The part that does is that Umbriel has the sword, and we're the ones who're supposed to get the pointy end."

Aziraphale rested a protective hand on his stomach. His attention danced around the flat with a shocked grimace as if a piercing weapon would come shooting out at any moment from behind a jar of buttons or between the scarves hanging on the coat rack near the bedroom door.

"But how in _the world _would Umbriel even get it?" Aziraphale asked. "I can't say I know exactly who's department that is, but perhaps if there was a bit of a mix-up–"

"Or the Archangels were getting desperate and needed a patsy to do their dirty work," Crowley interjected. "The hellfire, holy water, and apocalypse in general didn't seem to do the trick, so they thought up of another clever idea to get us out of the way."

Aziraphale's eyes rested on the demon, his jaw dropping. "There's … no. Absolutely not. The Archangels wouldn't be so cruel as to … poor Umbriel, she couldn't–"

"Open your eyes, angel," Crowley said. The anger had boiled down to a simmer, replaced by something … old. Aziraphale was reminded of the occasions where Crowley would spend decades just sleeping – as if the very act of existing was too tiring in its own right. Considering what he used to be held accountable for back then, perhaps it was.

"We're right back at square one," Crowley drawled. "Bloody hell, we never even left. Just like I predicted, that Guardian has done nothing but put on a convincing enough show to get our guard down. I bet you she's already told Gabriel and the others about our plan and your little loophole when it comes to Guardians following orders. They've already taken measures to patch things up, if they're smart."

The nervous buzzing that had been emanating from the angel came to a sudden stop as if a switch had been flicked. It was replaced by an air of defiance as he lifted his chin. "You're wrong, Crowley. I think it's just … all of it is simply …. simply _poppycock! _Umbriel wouldn't hide things, and she _especially _wouldn't try to kill us!"

"Why not?" Crowley asked.

The inquiry was so unexpected, Aziraphale laughed. Neither of them found it amusing.

"You don't _kill _your friends, Crowley," Aziraphale stated, as if explaining the concept to a child. "You know Umbriel – she couldn't hurt a fly."

"I think that's the issue you're failing to see," Crowley said, an irritated tone creeping into his voice. "_I _don't know Umbriel_. You_ don't know Umbriel. We've been … ah, what's the word? Something about a fish."

"Don't tell me this is that 'pard' thing, again," Aziraphale said with a frown.

"No, shut up," Crowley snapped. "We've been duped, is what I'm trying to say. And now we need to figure out how to get to Umbriel before she gets to us. It'll be thorny, since she's got the sword on her and all. But in the end, we've got more tricks up our sleeve. I dunno if I can still do the 'hellfire' thing anymore, but we probably won't have to put in that much effort, anyway."

The wooden chair that had been propping up the angel bounced and tumbled into a nearby shelf as its occupant jolted to his feet. There was a metallic jostling as a collection of hand-crafted pens weathered the storm of the wayward object. A jar of ink wasn't so lucky, hitting the hardwood floor with a dull thud. A trail of black spots followed the jar's path as it slowly rolled away and under an adjacent shelf as if it knew better than to stick around for what was coming.

"I do not want to hear an _utterance _of you so much as implying something of that nature again," Aziraphale said. If the laugh lines from before made the angel appear young, the deep, piercing blue behind his stare stretched back all the way to the beginning of time.

"One of the biggest regrets of my life was trying to … to do _that _to Adam Young when I felt like we had no other choice. I will not tolerate any insinuations to an act of violence, do you hear me?!"

Now it was Crowley's turn to laugh. Aziraphale looked on in disbelief as the demon got to his feet and casually buttoned his jacket.

"This whole bleeding thing started because you wanted to recruit troops for a war, angel," Crowley said. He leaned over the table, smiling innocently. "Maybe your kind_ is_ sort of daft, since the last time I checked, war and violence go together like … hmm, right … PB&J, yeah. Like that."

Aziraphale cleared his throat. It took him a moment to recover from his last outburst – a rare enough occurrence to only happen once every century or so. Once he was composed, the corners of his lips tugged up in a smile.

A false smile.

Crowley wasn't sure if the angel could have hurt him more without a word if he tried.

"I do consent to that point," Aziraphale said, the chipper tone to his voice just as artificial. "In all honesty, I was hoping to garner enough support to be able to avoid any brutality outright. If that ends up being fruitless … then, yes, I suppose things would have to go that way. But it would be an absolute last resort; for when we have no other options left, you see. Only then."

"You haven't been to a lot of wars, have you?" Crowley asked. Aziraphale's smile fell, causing the demon's expression to brighten from his statement having the desired effect.

"Those who hesitate are usually the first ones to have their heads rather unceremoniously detached from their shoulders," Crowley continued.

This was an assumption being yanked directly from thin air. Crowley was just as prone to wandering about war-zones as the angel, but this wasn't a fact he felt the need to share.

"Every member of your motley crew will be eradicated before the war even begins." Crowley held his arms wide, a mocking grin on his face. "Think you can shoulder something like that on your conscious, angel?"

The bell above the front door jingled. The pair turned their heads, although only a portion of the open doorway was visible from their spot by the window. It was all they needed, though, to catch the neon pink and green pattern of a particularly gaudy shirt.

"Mr. Aziraphale? Mr. Crowley?" Umbriel called. The door closed with another jingle that was far too lively for the current situation. Swift footsteps creaked across the worn wooden floor.

"Are you two alright? It feels sort of funny in here."

Aziraphale shot Crowley a look that seemed to indicate that he was willing to let the matter of their previous conversation rest for another time. He opened his mouth to call out to Umbriel, when Crowley saved him the trouble.

"Don't come up; we're indecent."

The footfalls came to stop. Aziraphale's face twisted in confusion. The angel mouthed the word 'indecent' in a questioning manner.

"She would immediately shoot up the stairs if I said anything else," Crowley said. He squared his shoulders and turned away. Aziraphale instantly started to follow behind the demon's gait, mouthing the word 'indecent' again with a shake of his head.

"No," Crowley snapped, turning on his heel. His companion flinched at the unexpected outburst, backing away as Crowley's nose was suddenly inches from his. The proximity was necessary, however, as the demon's voice took on a whisper as he spoke.

"You stay here, got it? I don't want you getting too close."

"Crowley, you're being ridiculous," Aziraphale said, raising his voice to drive home the opinion. He tried to step to the side, but his way was blocked by the appearance of an arm donned in black silk.

"I'm only going to talk to her," Crowley said, gravely. "I promise you that; just stay here."

Aziraphale held the unblinking gaze. The chips had fallen, and while there was one who hesitated, there was another who knew precisely where they would land. Crowley's outstretched arm was gently pushed aside before his companion stepped around him and descended the stairs.

"Umbriel, my dear! Terribly sorry about that. How was shopping? Find anything that tickled your fancy?"

Crowley stared at the empty space where Aziraphale had been, jaw clenched. He whipped about and thundered down the steps, nearly bumping into Aziraphale at the landing.

"It was, uh …" Umbriel trailed off, watching the odd display as Aziraphale and Crowley danced about the other as if touching would cause them to go up in flames. Umbriel also found it rather awkward to attempt to finish her line of thought as Crowley unabashedly hid her view of Aziraphale as he stepped between them.

"Oh, um, Mr. Crowley," Umbriel said, smiling weakly. "I should tell you that I actually picked up something about the woman who cleans your apartment, and I thought you might want to know that–"

"How about I tell you a story, for a change?" Crowley said, speaking over her.

Umbriel's mutterings about a hospital trailed away. She exchanged a worried look with Aziraphale over the demon's shoulder before returning her attention to the dark spectacles.

"A-alright," she said.

"Once upon a time," Crowley said, the words dripping from his tongue as if he needed to make every one of them stick, "there was an angel and a demon who pissed off a _whole lot _of people."

The expected outcome of an ungainly dance took place between one entity just barely capable of the act and another who was outright piss poor at it. Umbriel was backing away as Crowley leaned over her, the odd mixture of emotions in the air churning and blending with the ingrained feelings of the bookshop in the way that was quickly growing overwhelming. She didn't even register that they had already crossed to the other end of the room until she bumped against the short shelf near the door, wincing at the painful sensation running through her elbow.

"Crowley," Aziraphale said, his voice strained.

"No worries, no worries," Crowley cooed. There was a dismissive tone as if he had simply been caught telling a disturbing story to a child about a witch living in a chicken-legged hut. The storyteller could easily tweak the subject matter to make it so the house's legs were fuzzy and cute like a lamb, and that the woman within most certainly didn't eat those unlucky enough to come upon her, but he was rather fond of the story and the reaction it would elicit.

Crowley ran his fingers up and down the desk at his side in a nonchalant manner, weak sunbeams from the fading light picking up trace clouds of dust.

"All the angel and the demon really wanted was to be left alone," Crowley continued, studying his fingertips. "But the cunts both above and below simply couldn't have that."

"_Language!_" Aziraphale warned. Crowley turned to bathe the angel in a glowing smile.

"My apologies, angel. Now, where was I?"

The demon's attention shifted back to Umbriel, his smile stretching in a way that only appeared human if you looked at it head-on.

"Oh, right. Well, all those pissed off shitheads – pardon my language – tried various things in order to get rid of the angel and demon in question. When those things didn't work, one of them must've had a bright idea."

A chipper ring echoed through the bookshop as Crowley's hand slapped the small bell sitting on the desk. The sound grew stale as it hung in the air, the demon waiting for it to fade with that disturbing grin as if he were put on pause. Apprehension was growing in his companion's gut, and she couldn't decide if it would ease off more if he were to continue or not.

"They decided to try something a little more _devious," _Crowley finally said. He closed the gap between himself and Umbriel. The Guardian could see herself in the reflection of his glasses – wide-eyed, with a thin line where her mouth used to be.

"I'm afraid this is the part of the story where I don't have all the details," Crowley said. He leaned forward, the hackles on Umbriel's neck rising as he whispered into her ear.

"You're going to have to fill in the blanks for me concerning your activities as the Archangels' little lapdog."

Umbriel's grip on the shelf faltered, her shoulder slumping. Her hand caught the spine of a book that hadn't been pushed in all the way, the object taking a few of its comrades down with it in a resulting clatter that caused Aziraphale to wince.

Umbriel hastily slid along the shelf until she could step around the demon watching her with a disturbingly innocent expression. Eyes darting back and forth from one end of the shop to the other, Umbriel attempted to make her way beside Aziraphale. There was a sudden cry of surprise as Crowley was again before her, moving in a way that her mind put together as more of a dark blur than anything resembling the way a normal human body should move.

"Mr. Crowley," Umbriel said, fighting to keep her voice steady. "I'm not sure where you heard such a thing."

Crowley chuckled, shrugging his shoulders and holding his arms wide. "You know what? I bet I'm just making some silly mistake. The whole thing is probably just a load of poppycock, as the angel would put it. You would _never _give the Archangels' reports on our activities, would you, Umbriel? You would never _spy._"

Umbriel tried to force a smile on her face, her lip quivering. "I … I wouldn't …"

"By your own words," Crowley said pleasantly. "I recall you saying that you don't _lie … _much."

Crowley's smile turned predatory as he ambled toward the Guardian. "And if you _really _were assigned some sort of weapon, now would be the perfect time for you to use it, wouldn't it? I'm the first target on your hit list, if memory serves me right."

The color drained from Umbriel's face. She backed away from Crowley, her shoulders causing one of the bookshelves to sway as she knocked into it.

"Crowley," Aziraphale said, looking between the two. "Stop it; you're terrifying her!"

"Oh, I can be quite terrifying," Crowley said. The Guardian would have to go through him directly if she wanted to relieve the painful sensation of the unforgiving shelf pressed into her back. This, however, did not seem like a smart option.

A steady hand reached up to remove dark lenses; devious, yellow eyes boring into a panicked sea of green.

"I'm the one who caused all those people to burn, after all."

Umbriel's expression grew puzzled. Aziraphale inhaled sharply.

"Crowley, you stop this right now!" the higher angel warned.

"The M25 was probably my greatest work," Crowley said, smiling proudly. "The angel told me how you got to witness it in all its glory; I like to imagine that the flames burned so high and so hot that it toasted the toes of the blokes upstairs. It was a thing of beauty, wasn't it?"

Umbriel regarded him in bewilderment. Her curly hair picked up dust from the archaic books at her back as her head slowly moved from side-to-side.

"Hail the Great Beast, devourer of worlds!" Crowley shouted. He threw back his head as he cackled, the lamps scattered about the shop flashing to illuminate them in blinding, bright light before dimming. When Crowley's yellow eyes slid back to Umbriel, the angel was breathing deeply, her lips pulled back in a grimace. She looked about like an animal caught in a trap, contemplating gnawing its own leg off to escape.

"He's lying!" Aziraphale shouted. "Crowley designed the M25, yes, but–"

"The humans may not remember, but _you _sure do," Crowley said, his voice growing soft. "The smell of burning hair, the way their flesh dripped from their bones …" Crowley leaned closer, Umbriel fighting not to flinch as breath far too hot rolled over her. "Being burned alive can't be very pleasant, I would imagine. But I bet you were able to feel their emotions, hmm? Every … single … one."

There was a polite pause to allow the Guardian to recall all one hundred and seventeen thousand, four hundred and seventy-nine instances of just that.

"What does it feel like, I wonder?" Crowley said as if he were simply inquiring about the procedure for a shiatsu massage. "Is it the smoke tearing at your airway that stings the most? Or maybe its when your blood comes to a boil? Perhaps it's the eyes melting out of their sockets …"

"Crowley!" Aziraphale shouted. He grabbed the demon by the shoulder, yanking him back. Crowley put up little resistance, his yellow eyes remaining locked on Umbriel.

"A wicked, abysmal demon like myself deserves to be punished for such an awful deed, yes?" Crowley crooned.

Umbriel closed her mouth to stop her trembling lip. Something dark shifted behind her eyes. If a shark could smile after catching the scent of blood, it would have a sharp resemblance Crowley.

The arm in Aziraphale's grip was tugged away. Crowley closed the distance between himself and Umbriel, Aziraphale's hand only finding air when he tried to regain his hold.

"I was there, you know," Crowley said, a hint of something almost intimate behind the statement. Saying the words no one wanted to hear with traces of tenderness always worked better than the alternatives. It was the reason Crowley chose to express most of his grievances through fits of kicking and screaming – those actions were plain and easy enough to be pushed aside. The statements that stuck with you – the ones that hurt the absolute most – were ones spoken through the lips of someone who sounded like they cared.

There was something small struggling in the back of Crowley's mind in protest. But another feeling – a force that made up a core part of not only who, but _what _he was – came out on top. It was something that the demon had wrestled with for centuries, hoping that changing his name from Crawley to Crowley would solidify the decision as he struggled to handle what giving in to that sensation made him become. But the experience was intoxicating, and the level of euphoria coursing through his veins was an impossible temptation to resist.

"I drove right through the flames –right passed all of them burning," Crowley breathed. He ran his finger along the side of Umbriel's neck, using the outer limits of his exceptional imagination to recreate the sight of swirling orange accented by silhouettes crumpling into dust. Umbriel closed her eyes, but the act failed at blocking out the mental imagery. A low whimper escaped her lips as a tear rolled down her cheek.

"I didn't give a single fuck about any of 'em," Crowley hissed. "It never even crossed my mind. Human deaths are so trivial, why would I?"

"Crowley, I swear –!" Aziraphale said, once again trying to drag the demon back. But this time, Crowley held fast.

"I deserve it, don't I? I deserve whatever judgement I have coming to me," Crowley continued. Umbriel's eyes opened to meet his. Crowley leaned forward, making sure her vision was filled with nothing but yellow.

"The thing I don't get, however," Crowley whispered, "is how you could justify doing the same to the angel."

A steadfast resolve fell over Umbriel. Crowley's heart beat faster – knowing from experience what was to come; that he had won.

"I was never going to!" Umbriel screamed. She raised her hands as if to push Crowley away, but paused – her shaking fingers instead slowly curling into fists.

"I wasn't going to ... not to him. It was only going to be you!"

Aziraphale found himself stumbling backward as suddenly Crowley became quite mobile. His hip found a short table, the small stack of books at its edge tumbling to the ground. The angel rapidly blinked, finding his footing and raising his head.

The pungent, heavy feeling to the air lifted. Crowley stood at the center of the room, casually reaching into the front of his jacket. A pair of sunglasses were produced and slid onto the demon's nose before he nestled his hands in his pockets. He turned his head to regard Aziraphale with the same easygoing, expectant look as if he were waiting for the angel to join him on a stroll through the park.

Aziraphale's eyes wandered over Crowley as if he were trying to read something in a language he didn't understand. Reluctantly, he moved his attention to Umbriel, who was also staring at the demon with a wary expression as her breathing grew less erratic.

"Crowley, you didn't have to … you shouldn't have done …"

Aziraphale was having trouble keeping everything steady. The bookshop felt like it was rocking about like a vessel in a storm, the mast having been torn away by strong winds and leaving Aziraphale alone with nothing to cling to.

"That's not …" Aziraphale said, his voice trailing off. A weak smile fought to stay on his face despite his trembling lip. "That's not true at all, is it, Umbriel? You were just in a bit of a shock, yes?"

Umbriel's demeanor crumpled the second her attention left Crowley. Aziraphale's hopeful smile ebbed away. He slowly shook his head, a pained whimper escaping his lips.

"No, dear. You wouldn't. You wouldn't do something like that. You wouldn't."

To Aziraphale's disappointment, the reality of the situation didn't seem to change no matter how many times the statement was uttered.

"Where's the sword?" Crowley asked. If he had been looking at Aziraphale before as if expecting to go on a stroll, he was speaking to Umbriel now with a casual indifference as if he had asked her to join them.

Umbriel's gaze left Aziraphale. Her wide eyes stood out sharply against the pallor of her skin, a faint beading of sweat nestled on her brow giving her the appearance of being ill.

"I don't have it," Umbriel croaked. Her shoulders slumped, gaze lowering. If Crowley was capable of sucking joy from the air, then Umbriel could do the same to color.

Aziraphale was brought back to the day they first met; there had been a semblance of a person behind those green eyes, but it wasn't _quite _right. It had been like coming across a wind-up doll without a key – the doll still _was, _but without being wound, it could never be anything more. Aziraphale had thought he had found the key, but watching Umbriel now, he couldn't help but to wonder if Crowley had been right – perhaps nothing had changed at all.

"The Archangels are only going to give it to me when …" Umbriel's voice trailed off. She let out a low gasp, struggling to keep her composure. "When …"

"When they see an opportunity to end my time on this mortal realm," Crowley said, lifting his hands. "Or in any realm, really."

Aziraphale took a step forward. Then another. His feet drug across the carpet as if the decoration had transformed into quick sand. He eventually made it to Crowley's side, wringing his hands in a nervous fashion as he studied Umbriel's stooped form.

"We'll have to lay low for a while," Crowley said matter-of-factly. "They have the sword, but we can stay a step ahead if we keep our wits about us."

Crowley turned his head to meet Aziraphale's worried expression. "Don't worry, angel. I'll figure out something about the books."

Aziraphale didn't seem comforted by the sentiment. Blue eyes darted away for a second, followed by the angel's Adams apple bobbing as if his throat had gone dry.

"What about Umbriel?"

Crowley's expression darkened. "Who gives a shit?"

A flash of alarm crossed the angel's face. Crowley scoffed, a puff of air escaping his nose.

"I ain't gonna do anything, if that's what you mean," the demon spat. "Not worth the effort."

Crowley watched Aziraphale's shoulders slump in relief. He glanced at Umbriel, but quickly looked back as a soft creaking grabbed his attention. Aziraphale was rocking side to side, his gaze fixated on the other end of the room. Crowley knew very well what he was looking at, and he immediately recognized the old habit; It was the same thing Aziraphale used to do when contemplating Crowley's propositions of working together, back in the day.

"What the fuck are you doing?" the demon hissed. Aziraphale regarded him, eyes wide.

"Whatever do you mean?" Aziraphale said. "I'm not doing anything."

"You're _thinking," _Crowley growled. "You're thinking about doing something nice for the thing that wants to murder me."

Aziraphale's gaze did that thing again, where it seemed that Crowley had shifted slightly out of focus. Crowley couldn't put a finger on why, exactly, but the look ignited irritation deep in his gut.

"I want to talk to her," Aziraphale said softly. "I don't think she means it, Crowley. We haven't even given her a chance to def–"

"She _said it, _angel," Crowley spat. "She was aiming to gut me like a trout. What more do you want? Details on how she's gonna do it? Maybe see if she was planning on having me stuffed? Not sure if they have museums up there among the clouds, but I'm sure a sinful, menacing demon would make an ace display."

Aziraphale's brows knit together in resolve. He seemed to have an easier time picking up his feet as he crossed the large carpet, sidestepping books scattered across the floor before coming to a stop beside Umbriel.

"Angel!" Crowley snapped.

A shaking hand tentatively reached out to tuck a mass of curly hair mingled with sweat behind Umbriel's ear. Aziraphale slowly moved to cup her cheek. He let out a soft gasp, and Umbriel's eyes reluctantly rose to meet his.

The higher angel forced a reassuring smile on his face. He took a deep breath, and the smile grew more genuine.

"It's alright," he said, kindly. "It's alright; I forgive you."

Umbriel let out a faint sob. Aziraphale wiped her tear away with his thumb, mumbling soft reassurances.

"ANGEL!"

Aziraphale turned about, straightening up from the shock of the tremor that ran through the shop. The suffocating feeling that had been in the air returned – for the ethereal beings it was now almost tangible, flicking in and out in flashes of purple at the edge of their vision. Crowley's teeth were bared, his hands balled into fists.

"She didn't want to, Crowley," Aziraphale said firmly. "You can feel it yourself, if you don't believe me."

Crowley regarded the angel as if he had grown a second head.

"She lied to us!" Crowley shouted, unable to comprehend Aziraphale's trouble with the concept. "All this time! Right to our faces, angel! And I'd be dead by what, next week? Tomorrow; if someone hadn't cocked things up? You want me to just let that go? You want me to say that everything is all tickety fucking boo?!"

Aziraphale scoffed at the indignation. "Of course not! It's just … I mean, she didn't _actually _try to do it, and–"

"And what?" Crowley exclaimed, arms flailing. "That makes it alright, does it? She did every single step in ending my existence up to the point where she actually had to _do_ it, and that's OK with you, is it?!"

"Don't put words in my mouth," Aziraphale said sternly. "The way she feels, Crowley … I think that should be taken into consideration."

"How about the way _I _bloody feel?!" Crowley said, pounding his chest. He started pacing about the room, giving Umbriel a wide berth. "'_Oh yeah, it's no problem that you tried to assassinate me, feather duster! Let's head down to the pub for a pint, and we can have a bit of a laugh over the whole thing!_'"

Aziraphale turned to Umbriel. Her eyes were tracking Crowley, back still firmly pressed up against the bookshelf.

"You can tell him, my dear," Aziraphale said softly. "It won't make it alright, just yet, but it's somewhere to start."

Umbriel swallowed; her voice surprisingly steady.

"No."

Crowley's pacing stopped. Panic fluttered in Aziraphale's gut.

"Ah," the higher angel said, fighting to keep his tone light. "I may have misspoken. Now might not be a good time for all this, actually."

"It was a trick," Umbriel whispered. "You can't really love – it's not possible." Umbriel lifted her head, standing a bit straighter as if a weight had been taken away. "If your feelings were genuine, you would stay away so he wouldn't be in danger of falling – your actions are contradictory."

Crowley grandly waved his arms through the air as if addressing an unseen audience. "And there it is!" he exclaimed. "The Guardian Umbriel: every bit the angel she's expected to be – her nose so far up in the air, she doesn't have to catch a whiff of my lot!"

"What in the world are you two going on about?" Aziraphale said. "I don't think that is an appropriate conversation right –"

"You've fallen!" Umbriel screamed. She wasn't brave enough to step from behind Aziraphale, but her expression twisted in malice. "You can't do anything good for this world! The only thing you can do is spread pain! You're evil, and you always have been! You're just like the rest of them! You're an affront against the Almighty and you should never have existed!"

Umbriel's screeching came to an abrupt halt as she caught her breath. The smile on the face of her subject of scorn wavered, but Crowley quickly recovered with a bashful expression.

"My my, aren't you the flattering type?" he said, his voice sweet like the nectar of a carnivorous plant. "Watch out, angel – I may have a new favorite."

Aziraphale regarded Umbriel like a parent watching their child confess to a crime before a judge. He took a shuddering breath, grasping for his resolve.

"Tensions are a little high," he said, making the understatement of the century. "But … we'll think of something, hmm? No need for all this 'lashing out' business; it's rather boorish."

"What?"

The mirth had drained from Crowley entirely. He regarded Aziraphale in disbelief. "What the hell are you talking about? She's out, angel. That's it."

Aziraphale balked. "Most certainly not! I can't imagine what the Archangel's will do if they get a hold of her. No, Umbriel is staying with us and we're going to figure all of this out."

Crowley ripped away his sunglasses, staring in shock. "Do we really have to circle back to the _murder _bit?!" he exclaimed.

"Crowley," Aziraphale said, weariness creeping in to his voice. "If we're being fair, you also insinuated doing the same thing toward Umbriel no less than a quarter of an hour ago. And if I know you – which I like to believe that I do – I don't think you were any more serious about the matter than she was."

"That was about self-defense! Totally different!" Crowley said, storming across the room. He reached out, bunching the material of Aziraphale's jacket in his hands. "It's _me, _angel!" Crowley said, yellow eyes dancing over Aziraphale's face, pleading.

"If there's anyone in this world you should care the most about losing forever, wouldn't it be me?"

Aziraphale's resolve nearly crumbled. The angel shifted uncomfortably. "That's not … that's not fair, Crowley. You have to take consideration of the position she's in; it's not all black and white."

"MURDER IS PRETTY GODDAMN BLACK AND WHITE!" Crowley exclaimed. He shoved Aziraphale back, breathing heavily. The bookshop had always seemed cramped, but instead of the usually cozy nature, the wooden beams and walls with curling wallpaper seemed to be shrinking in on him. It reminded him of the time where he walked through the doors and everything was burning – the flames around him now couldn't be seen, but they weren't any less suffocating.

"She's out, angel, and that's final," Crowley growled, sliding on his glasses. "The two of us not obliterating her here and now is about as far as your mercy needs to go."

Aziraphale's expression turned solemn. "I won't do that, Crowley. I'm not going to abandon her – we have to stick together."

If it was rare for Aziraphale to have an outburst, it was even rarer for Crowley to be at a loss for words. He clenched his jaw, still as a statue as he stared at Aziraphale. After a moment, the corners of his mouth tugged upwards.

"Ah," Crowley said, as if he had just recalled the punchline to a particularly good joke. He swept his hand through his hair, his eyes drifting about the bookshop as he chuckled. "I see. Got yourself one of your own kind to keep you company, so never mind old Crowley. You have better options now to keep yourself entertained, yeah? No need to skulk about with the likes of a demon anymore."

"This isn't because of what she is!" Aziraphale exclaimed, irritated. "This is because she is my friend, Crowley, just as you are! Why can't you see that? We're all on the same side!"

Crowley sneered. He took slow, methodical steps across the carpet. Umbriel shrunk back against the bookshelf, making herself as small as possible. But the Guardian wasn't Crowley's focus.

"Crowley, wha–?"

The rest of Aziraphale's question fell away as Crowley tucked his hand underneath the angel's chin and drew his thumb across the bottom of Aziraphale's lip. The angel stared back at the demon as if he had genuinely lost his mind.

"That's where you're wrong," Crowley said, his voice soft. "There is no 'our side,' Aziraphale; not anymore."

Crowley turned away. He sauntered toward the door as if he didn't have a care in the world – which now technically may have been true.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale exclaimed. He followed the demon into the dimly lit street, fog fluttering about their ankles. The object of his attention didn't stop, weaving between the few pedestrians passing by and only pausing as the door to the Bentley popped open.

"Crowley, what in the world are you saying?" Aziraphale said, his voice laced with panic. "You can't leave! Any of us being alone could be dangerous!"

The car roared to life, beams of light slicing through the darkness. Aziraphale gave the door handle a frantic pull to no avail.

"Crowley, please!"

The Bentley shifted into gear – Aziraphale taking a hurried step back as the tires spun, creating a cloud of grey smoke as the Bentley peeled away. The car let out a deafening honk as it merged into traffic while other cars swerved to avoid a collision.

For what the angel Aziraphale worried may be the very last time, he watched his old friend vanish into the crowded streets of London.

·◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊·

It took Crowley nine hours to get to Scrabster. He easily could have done it in seven or eight, but decided that only driving 50 or so miles above the speed limit allowed him to take in some of the scenery. Said scenery was pitch black most of the time, but that was beside the point.

The demon hadn't stopped once since leaving the bookshop. He just kept driving until he literally ran out of road. He now stood at the edge of a scenic harbor, looking out with far more malice than anyone had witnessed besides the local fishermen. He scowled at the horizon, tapping his foot and wondering when the whole "calming" thing is supposed to kick in. It wasn't that the demon had never seen the ocean (he'd walked along every beach there was), but he hadn't really cared much for trying to use Earth's salty waters as a tool to relax. The sea also happened to be a shade of blue that day which reminded the demon of someone he was trying very, very hard to forget.

After about two minutes, Crowley gave up. On his way back to the car, he spotted a happy couple chatting in polish while taking pictures. He gave them a cheery wave, which they returned with gusto. While their backs were turned, a large wave rose up to soak them head-to-toe.

·◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊·

It took Crowley three hours to get to Broadchurch. He stood at the top of an impressive set of steep cliffs and looked out over the churning grey ocean. He thought that maybe the cliffs would add something dramatic like they do in the movies or television. The only thing they did was make his calves sore from the trek up.

He stayed up there for four days.

A woman who lived nearby said she had watched a smartly-dressed gentleman make it about a quarter of the way down the hill before he apparently grew tired of the hike and went to sleep. She had checked on the man with some concern some hours into his slumber, but was shooed away with flailing limbs and a grumble when she tried to inquire about his well-being. Paramedics were called, but they found that the man seemed sober, of sane sensibilities (sort of), and medically fine. He wasn't hurting anyone, so they shrugged their shoulders and went home. A few concerned citizens left him bread, thermoses of soup, and water; the bread disappearing after some time but only because of a few especially cocky seagulls (which are all of them, as it turns out).

There was a divide among the people of Broadchurch whether the man should be considered a joke or a tragedy. Some liked to think that he got kicked out by the missus, while others took a look at the designer suit and surmised that he had lost everything in the stock market. A bloke named Trent thought that the man was some sort of spirit because he _swore _that he never saw him eat, but Trent was usually associated with that motion where you spin your finger in a circle along the side of your head as you share _that look _with your companions.

On day four, the local news reporter was having a row with the chief of police. The police had decided that enough was enough, and the man needed to be taken in for a mental health evaluation for his own good. The reporter agreed wholeheartedly, but only _after _he had a chance to shoot his segment. This was weird enough to gain national attention, in his opinion, being of the type who thought that a coin landing on its side would do the same. After much back-and-forth, an agreement had been made that the reporter could do the segment on the one condition that it was used to help discover the man's identity. Just as the camera was getting ready to roll, Crowley sat up.

"Will the two of you stop your bloody whinging? It's like listening to an old married couple."

Crowley rose, dusted the grass off his suit, and lurked away. The two men watched him go, the mysterious man in shades muttering as he stalked toward a dark car parked in the distance. They were only to pick up "trying to sleep" and "wankers" before he was too far away to hear.

"Old married couple," the police chief chuckled.

"Ha, yeah," his companion replied.

The police chief cleared his throat, clasping his hands behind his back.

"Fancy a spot of lunch?"

The reporter raised his eyebrows. He met the police chief's gaze and smiled.

"Thought you'd never ask."

·◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊·

The doors to Crowley's apartment opened with a far less dramatic grinding sound than the norm. The demon stepped inside, his brow rising as he looked about.

The broken wine bottle was gone, along with the wine itself that had been coating the living room carpet. Even the couch cushions had been wiped down and tucked back into place.

Crowley huffed. There was no doubt Aziraphale had stopped by at some point. He could imagine the angel making that annoying sound with his tongue as he would dramatically sweep his arms and miracle everything back into place. The angel wouldn't stop there, though, also tweaking a pot cover or a throw pillow here or there to give Crowley's place a little more "personality" as the angel would put it. This had happened multiple times, and every time the demon would change it back to the usual sleek black with a satisfied smirk. The angel would roll his eyes, promptly forgetting about the issue as he continued his story about a customer who was apparently dimwitted enough to actually think Aziraphale would part with a fully restored original Oscar Wilde work. The _audacity._

Today's instance was no different, minus the angel in question. The previously wine-soaked rug was a deep blue, and what had once been a picture of a minimalist design of crisscrossing black and grey lines hanging on the wall was now a painting of a yellow rubber duck.

Crowley raised his hand, but paused. His eyes lingered on both items for a moment before slowly lowering his arm.

"You …"

Feeling a good old-fashioned rage coming on, Crowley spun about. He snatched a mister sitting on the nearby shelf and stalked upstairs. He tried not to linger on the fact that the mister in his hand was the same one used on Umbriel, and how that memory would elicit a smirk when it resurfaced. Or, it used to.

"All of you better be picture-perfect depictions of the term 'house plant,' or I swear to Satan you're going to have a long, _long _fall all the way to the pavement," Crowley snapped as he reached the upstairs landing. The sound of rustling foliage met his ears as he stalked into the hallway. The plants were, expectantly, waiting for him. Their leaves perked up a little higher on his entrance, and his croton even shifted to a more vibrant shade of red.

"You bloody tosser!" Crowley shouted, slapping the leaves of a pothos that was by all accounts much larger and more vivid than any botanist had ever witnessed.

"What, can't go a few days without water, huh? You think you _need _me? Plants have been roughing it in conditions far worse than yours for _centuries, _you twat! If I see this many drooping leaves again, I'm ripping them out in front of the entire lot here one by one!"

A fine spray of mist fell over the shuddering pothos. Crowley gave it a final growl for good measure before moving on. The next victim was a snake plant that was fighting to straighten the sharp leaves that were starting to curl at the ends.

"I've known you for forever, haven't I?" Crowley said. His hands combed through the leaves, inspecting them for marks. "I've been good to you, right? I've been a good friend. For the most part, I think. I was there when you needed me, and I helped you out of more than a couple binds. I never asked for much. Just to have –"

Crowley paused. His hands slipped outside the leaves. He stared at the plant for a moment before letting out a sigh.

"Just to have someone see me."

Crowley hoisted the snake plant above his head, soil falling out in clumps over the shiny, grey tiles. The snake plant's life flashed before it's non-existent eyes, and it was disappointed to find the entire affair rather dull.

Crowley heaved his arms back. He flung them forward, but his grip on the pot stayed firm. He did an awkward spin, sliding haphazardly on some of the soil, before gaining his balance and coming to a stop. He had changed his mind at the last moment, and placed the snake plant back down with an air as if he had meant all along to spin it around like a dance partner.

"Watch yourself," Crowley said, giving the snake plant the stink eye. The snake plant's leaves fell in a relaxed droop as the demon's attention moved to his next victim: a banana tree, in this case. And yes, it really did bear bananas from time to time – it wouldn't dare not to.

Crowley ran his hands up and down the stalk, turning the bright green leaves to-and-fro.

"I gave you a chance," he mumbled. "It may not have looked it, but I really did. You were a complete minger who acted like a git half the time, but you were tolerable. At least you knew what things were, unlike the angel. If he read something penned in this century that didn't revolve around telling fortunes with binder clips or prophecies concerning the direction of the scented candle industry, everything wouldn't fly over his head all the time."

Crowley froze. There was a hazy spot toward the back of the trunk, barely visible. It was about the size of a quarter, and for 99% of the owners of a banana tree, would be of no concern. But this was one of those instances where being in the top 1% wasn't a good thing.

"And then everything went to shit," Crowley spat. He brought his face up to the trunk, his lips pulling back in a snarl.

"YOU USELESS, NAFF, PIECE OF RUBBISH! YOU'RE LIKE KING MIDUS, EXCEPT EVERYTHING YOU TOUCH TURNS TO PUTRID, STINKING EXCREMENT! YOU'RE NOTHING BUT A BACKSTABBING PLONKER WHO SHOULD'VE BEEN TOSSED BACK INTO THE FUCKING MOLD THE SECOND GOD LAID EYES ON YOU!"

Crowley's head snapped to the side as a banana leaf smacked him across the face. His mind took so long processing what the hell had just happened that he didn't bother to react as the entire plant bucked forward and struck him in the gut.

_I probably deserve this, _Crowley thought as he stumbled to the floor.

After years of abuse, it finally happened. One of his plants had made a major evolutionary step out of pure spite. Crowley's other houseplants did the closest they could do to cheering, screaming, or trying to run away. In other words – they did nothing.

"You wanna do name callin', huh?" the banana tree said, flicking its leaves. "How 'bout you bein' an ungrateful, manky, arsehole then, eh?!"

Crowley had to double check that his name wasn't Moses, since he was _pretty sure _that was the only person who was supposed to have any sort of plant telling them anything.

There was also something about his banana plant's voice that sounded familiar. Crowley couldn't say he recalled what God sounded like, but he could make the safe assumption that they wouldn't call him a manky arsehole. At least, he didn't think so. He hadn't spoken to them in a few thousand years, though, so things may have changed.

"I put my neck out to come out here, yeah?" the banana plant continued, shuddering. "And look what I get! Abused again, that's what – Fuckin' knob head."

Crowley's face twisted as something clicked into place.

"_Annette?!"_

The plant tilted to the side. "Oh, yeah," it said. "Didn't tell you my name last time, did I? Wasn't much time between you beating my arse."

There was a pause that was supposed to make Crowley feel guilty about that, but he was still too stunned to feel much of anything else.

"We can stick with Annette, though," the plant continued. "I like it better than my name, anyway. They were scraping along the bottom of the barrel when it came time to name the likes of me, I think."

"You …" Crowley's voice trailed off. He got to his feet, soil clinging to his pants. "Did you possess my fucking _banana plant?!"_

"It's not like I had a choice," the plant said, doing its best to shrug non-existent shoulders. "These plants are the only living things you got in here. Annette wasn't comin' back – the human one, you know – so I did the next best thing. This lot _hates _you, by the way – nice job!"

"I need a minute," Crowley said. He slowly turned and walked down the hall, leaving a trail of soil in his wake. He disappeared from view, and the plant sighed.

"I've been here for two bloody days, and he 'needs a minute,'" it mumbled.

After a short time, Crowley came back into view, a bottle of merlot in tow.

"You shouldn't drink from the bottle," the plant said. "Makes it look like you've got a problem."

"No one asked you," Crowley mumbled. He sat down, crossing his legs beneath him as he brought the wine to his lips. He pulled it away with a sigh before looking up at the plant ... and then feeling utterly ridiculous as he once again dwelled on the situation.

"I'm trying to wrack my brain to figure out what the hell you could gain from possessing my banana plant," Crowley said, his brow furrowing. "But unless you're in dire need of potassium, I'm coming up on empty."

"I wanted to give you a message, and this seemed the least risky," the plant said, glossy leaves rustling. "They track the phone service down there, and if I possessed a human it would've called too much attention."

"Then come here in your corporal form," Crowley stated flatly. "Not like anyone was here."

"They'd still see me come in, dingus," the plant spat. "It ain't a close eye, but the guys downstairs are still watching. Or, well, they _were. _Not as much anymore, but I still had to be careful. Anyways, the whole 'watching you' thing is why I'm here."

Crowley put down the bottle, leaning forward. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Above and below have pulled back on the resources they were usin' on you," the plant explained. "They're gonna leave you alone for a bit now that the sword is gone."

"Gone?" Crowley said, raising a brow. "What do you mean, _gone?"_

"It disintegrated," the plant said. Its leaves billowed as if it were trying to waggle invisible fingers. "Blew away into dust, it did. That's what happens when it kills an angel, apparently."

Time didn't stop, but coming from the perspective of someone who _could _do such a thing, it came pretty damn close.

The plant wasn't able to read Crowley's expression, the shades hiding much of it. Technically, the plant shouldn't have been able to see _anything, _but best not to dwell on the fact.

"W-who?" Crowley croaked.

"Wah?" the plant said, tilting to the side.

"The angel," Crowley said, his throat growing tight as he choked out the words. "The one that … which one …"

"Ah, the Guardian," the plant chirped. "Stuck herself with it, that. Didn't even know angels could kill themselves; learn somethin' new every day."

The wave of relief that washed over Crowley was quickly intermingled with guilt. He pulled off his glasses with shaking fingers, his body still trying to process the unexpected surge of adrenaline from the earlier shock. He stared at the item in his hand, recalling when he had to take them back from an annoying git who thought she was helping.

"The Guardian," Crowley said, his tongue suddenly feeling much heaver than normal. "Umbriel?"

"Yeah, think so," the plant affirmed. "The Archangels are right fuming. That sword was pretty OP, yeah? Would have been nice to have that around on our side."

"I'm not on –"

Crowley stopped, staring at the piles of soil littered about the floor. He closed his eyes, leaning his head forward.

"I'm not on your side."

"Whatever," the plant said. Silence fell, the banana plant waiting patiently for a few moments before letting out a dramatic sigh.

"Yeah, well, eh ... So, I'm just gonna ta–"

"The other angel, Aziraphale," Crowley suddenly said. "He's alright?"

"Oh! Him? Yeah, he also seemed right troubled over the sword, but yeah. I think the angels have pulled back on their end keepin' track of him, too."

Crowley let out a tired sound that contradicted the four days of sleep he'd recently awoken from. "You're wrong about that," he said slowly. The plant didn't respond, waiting for him to elaborate.

"If the angel was upset, it wasn't about losing the sword; I can assure you." Crowley looked off into the corner, staring at nothing.

"So, um, yeah," the plant said, shaking slightly. "I'd say I've repaid you for earlier. For lettin' me go back when I was in Annette, you know? Whole lot easier to sneak back into Hell and avoid Hastur tossin' me into the bile pit for comin' back empty handed."

Crowley didn't respond, still staring into space. The plant shuddered one last time before going still. The dark smudge that Crowley had spotted earlier skittered down the base of the plant, disappearing momentarily until popping up again as it crawled over the surface of the planter.

The smudge paused near Crowley's heel. The demon gave it a passing glance, noting that on closer inspection – and a good squint – the smudge looked like a hastily-drawn rodent. The animal-like portrayal flicked its tail before scuttling away.

Crowley stayed in that spot for some time. It wasn't four days, but it was long enough for his joints to ache and for the sun to have long since gone down and be on its way back up by the time he rose to his feet. He glanced down at the wine, contemplating it for a moment before dismissing it with a shrug. The doors to his office silently slid open as he entered, and Crowley leaned on the wide, obsidian table as he regarded the blinking answering machine.

"twenty-six messages," he mumbled. Crowley had a strong feeling that he knew quite well who had left each one. There was also a very good chance that the cell phone he had kept off in his pocket for the last few days had a similar number of messages from the same caller.

Crowley reached out, pressing 'Play.' The machine whirred to life with a click.

'_Hey, this is Anthony Crowley. You know what to do __–__ do it with style.'_

A shrill beep rang through the air.

"Ah, Crowley," a familiar voice said. "I stopped by your flat, but you didn't appear to be in. I picked up a bit – something dreadful had happened to the glass rack, you know; I hope you don't mind."

Aziraphale cleared his throat.

"You should come back, Crowley. Umbriel … she didn't mean it. She was hurting, Crowley. You know what that's like. And … and you're her friend. And … and you're …"

Crowley recognized the sound of Aziraphale drumming his fingers against the handle of the phone.

"Please, mon chou, come back."

The answering machine beeped, the red number on the front ticking down from twenty-six to twenty-five.

"Hello, Crowley, me again," Aziraphale's voice said. "I tried your cellular phone a few times with no luck, so I figured I'd try again here. I just … I just hope you're alright. And …"

There was a sigh that pulled at the few heartstrings the demon had been able to keep on him after the fall.

"Please come back, Crowley. I miss you."

The next few messages were more of the same: Aziraphale's intonation growing strained – pleading – each passing one. Every now and then Aziraphale would try to lighten the tone with a passing mention of practicing his magic tricks or a particularly interesting book passage he had read. It was a ploy to goad Crowley into returning, although considering the source, it was clear that there wasn't a hint of malice or deception behind the words. Well, there _was _a bit of deception, although that was more of the angel trying to fool himself into pretending that his cheerful tone was anything but.

In the end, it was quite effective.

Crowley had all but decided to stop listening then there and head down to the Bentley, when Aziraphale's tone unexpectedly shifted on the 11th message.

"I may be doing something foolish," Aziraphale's voice said. He sounded flustered, but determined. That was a good definition of the angel on just about any day, Crowley figured, and the angel was certainly sounding more like himself.

"I've called a meeting with the Archangels, and, ah, well … I'm not entirely sure how things are going to go. I don't know if you'll ever hear this, but I just wanted to tell you that you're important to me, Crowley. You weren't wrong about being the most important thing to me in this world. I just wanted you to know that, mon chou."

Another beep.

"Um …"

Crowley's head snapped up; his eyes wide.

"Mr. Crowley …"

A tapping sound could be heard, which the demon figured was the phone being shifted from one manicured hand to another.

"I wasn't … I wasn't telling the truth when I said you couldn't feel love. I know you can, I ... I'm sorry for that … for what ... for what I said ... I'm sorry for all of it ... I …"

Aziraphale could suddenly be heard in the background. His voice was barely audible, but Crowley could still distinguish an urgent tone as the angel called Umbriel's name. There was a click, the message ending there.

Crowley held his breath as the number on his machine ticked down.

"Hello, Mr. Crowley."

Umbriel's voice was much softer now. He could imagine her standing in the small nook near the phone, her back pressed against a bookshelf as she did her best to hide herself from view. Aziraphale would probably be upstairs, miracling the ink spots out of the hardwood floor or sitting at his armchair with a book in his lap as he made a very convincing show of actually taking in a word.

"Mr. Aziraphale misses you so much," Umbriel whispered. "He's not himself, right now. He feels … empty."

Umbriel took a shaking breath.

"He sits and stares for hours. He tells me he's reading, but he's not. He touched my hand when he handed me a cup."

There was another long breath.

"It felt like ... I ... I don't know. The Almighty's children don't have something exactly like it. It scared me."

Umbriel cleared her throat. Crowley could imagine fingers accented by long, pink nails running over her cheeks. Mascara, along with a streak of glittery green or blue eyeshadow, would smudge across her face to look like the gaudiest war-paint anyone had ever seen. It was a repulsive sight. 

"You didn't," Crowley whispered. "You didn't do that, you dimwitted git. Say you didn't do it."

"It hurts when he's like this," Umbriel's voice continued. "I don't want him to be this way forever ... Please, please don't leave Mr. Aziraphale."

There was a long enough pause that Crowley figured Umbriel had been called away again. He watched the tape in the machine silently turning before Umbriel's voice returned.

"If you come back, I promise I'll go."

The machine beeped.

Crowley didn't realize he had pulled his sunglasses out of his pocket until the black glass shattered in his hands. He looked down to regard the shards with a disinterested expression as the next message began to play.

"Hello, Crowley," Aziraphale's voice said. He sounded like a personification of the old books in his collection awaiting restoration – as if he, too, was only barely being kept from falling apart by a deteriorating stitch of string and clotted glue.

"I … I need you to see me. Please, Crowley, wherever you are."

The angel cleared his throat.

"Meet me where the angel danced; the moonlight shining bright."

Aziraphale took a deep breath. "Yes, well, please come find me there, mon chou."

The rest of the messages were the same. Occasionally Aziraphale would throw in more urgent language, but the communication always included that same cryptic phrase.

There was nothing else from Umbriel.

The answering machine clicked, and the tape inside whirred in the distressing fashion that only a product that was manufactured forty years prior could manage.

Crowley lifted his hands. He slowly turned over his palms, taking in the clatter of glass scattering and bouncing across the tile. Yellow eyes wandered over the shards that sparkled like black diamonds in the developing sunlight; looking for some sort of answer as if it could be divined in a similar fashion to the bones and sticks in the angel's books.

No answer came.

"Fuck."

·◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊·

On the second night of four that Crowley was spending fast asleep in Broadchurch, the angel Aziraphale had been walking along the shadowed, winding paths of St. James' Park. Every rustle, scratch, or chitter caused him to crane his neck and squint into the trees in alarm. He knew that there would be others watching, surely, but it didn't mean that he had to like the fact one bit.

As he got closer to the meeting spot, however, all background sounds suddenly died out like the ambient noises were playing on a CD and someone turned down the dial. Even the swish of his pants and the crunch of the gravel beneath his feet grew muddled as if the sound waves had to work ten times harder to make it to his ears.

Aziraphale did his best to ignore the fluttering sensation of his heart as he fought to keep his composure. He came to a stop under the gentle yellow glow of one of the many streetlamps lining the path, and waited.

It wasn't for long.

"Principality Aziraphale."

"Y-yes, good evening."

Aziraphale tugged on the cuffs of his macaroon-colored trench coat in a nervous fashion, doing his best to put on a pleasant expression.

The streetlamps made it more than easy enough for Aziraphale to have a decent view of the five figures as they slowly approached. Their familiar likenesses blinked in and out of focus as they passed beneath the lamps – brunette hair neatly swept up into a bun, a look of contempt, hands clasped around the naval, grey suits, false smiles.

The dull sound of shifting pebbles came to a stop as the figures also found refuge in the light. They were still at least a few yards away, however – seemingly not comfortable enough to put themselves at a closer distance.

"Beautiful night, wouldn't you say?" Aziraphale asked with a strained chuckle. "Not too, umm, _damp. _Heh."

"For what purpose have you summoned us, Aziraphale?" the Archangel Gabriel asked, his deep voice solemn. Unlike Aziraphale, he – along with the three Archangels at his side – hadn't bothered to don coats for the occasion. Their formal attire was a jarring contrast to the wooded surroundings; it appeared that they would have been far more at home if the trees around them were to be cut, sanded, painted, and slapped together into an executive board room (tastefully decorated with minimalist features, of course).

"Ah, yes, well," Aziraphale fussed, his eyes dancing about. His gaze lingered on the fifth member of the group facing him before bringing his attention back to Gabriel.

"I believe you all know I've found out some rather, _disturbing, _information," Aziraphale said.

The Archangels didn't immediately react. After a few seconds, Gabriel huffed, looking about as if Aziraphale's great revelation had been that the sky was blue.

"You can't be _surprised, _Aziraphale," Gabriel said. His expression grew pleasant, although the gesture didn't reach his violet eyes. "You've made your choice to remove yourself from God and The Great Plan. You have fallen, Aziraphale, and you can't expect that we wouldn't take any action."

Aziraphale appeared taken aback, placing his hand over his coat at the offense. "I … I have not_ fallen_, thank you. And … And yes, I assumed that you all are rather _vexed_ with my hand in circumventing the apocalypse and all that, but …"

Aziraphale trailed off, once again eyeing the figure standing at the edge of the group before returning his attention to Gabriel. "But I don't agree with the manner in which you have chosen to accomplish your plans; it isn't fair to get anyone involved with this who is perfectly innocent in any wrongdoing."

Gabriel's brow furrowed in puzzlement. He turned to regard his companions, the Archangels Michael and Sandalphon returning his confused expression. The Archangel Uriel, however, continued to watch Aziraphale with an air of indifference.

"Guardian Umbriel only feels blessed to be doing God's will," the stoic Archangel said. At the mention of her name, the Guardian standing at Uriel's side lowered her eyes. She donned a long, plain white dress, her straight hair falling partially over her face to obscure it in shadow.

Gabriel leaned over to regard Umbriel before letting out a chuckle. He smiled, shaking his head as he looked back to Aziraphale as if the Principality had told a rather humorous joke at the Guardian's expense.

"Really, Aziraphale? _She's _who you're worried about?" Gabriel said. "A Guardian's purpose is to watch after the humans and obey the orders of the higher hierarchy of angels. I think you have a fair share of more important things to worry about, if I'm not mistaken."

Michael and Sandalphon mirrored Gabriel's chipper expression. Aziraphale regarded Gabriel with the closest thing to contempt that he could muster, which came across more akin to looking like he had indigestion. The Principality cleared his throat and adjusted his bow-tie.

"Yes, well, speaking of things to worry about," Aziraphale said briskly. "That's what I'm here for, actually." A forced smile touched his lips as he lifted his arms in a defeated motion. "I have no intention of running, you see. I'm rather fond of my bookshop and all the humans, so I figured that if this is going to be the end, I might as well have it end here in London where I'm at home."

The smiles ebbed away from the Archangels' faces. They exchanged looks hoping to gain confirmation with each other to ensure they had heard correctly.

"You're just … surrendering?" Gabriel asked, peering at Aziraphale as if the angel were suddenly miles away. "Why?"

"Well, there _is_ a catch," Aziraphale said, fiddling with his hands. "Since I'm making it rather easy for you all to, umm, '_get me out of the picture,' _as it were – I would like to make the request that any sort of plans to also, erm, _'take care of,' _the demon Crowley come to an immediate stop."

Gabriel raised his eyebrows. He exhaled deeply through his nose as he slid his hands into his pockets. "I can't say we have a lot of jurisdiction over that, Aziraphale," he said. "The other side has it out for him just as much as we do. We can call off our efforts, but that's about the best you're going to get."

"I have a feeling …" Aziraphale said, his voice growing firm. His eyes shifted to the Archangel at Gabriel's side, "that isn't entirely accurate."

The Archangel Michael pursed her lips. She and Gabriel exchanged a sideways glance before her attention returned forward.

"I'll do what I can," she said curtly. Aziraphale nodded, knowing that this was the best he was going to get.

"Well then!" Gabriel exclaimed. He clapped his hands, the sound ringing through the still night air for a second before prematurely dying out. "Unless you have anything else to add, Aziraphale, then I believe we can get down to business."

Aziraphale loudly cleared his throat. "There is one more thing, actually," the angel said, his gaze shifting. His face fell as he studied the silent Guardian.

"Don't make her do it," Aziraphale said, the request barely registering through the dampened air.

For the first time since the meeting began, the Archangels appeared uncomfortable. Uriel quickly recovered, her face returning to an impartial mask. Sandalphon and Michael didn't meet Aziraphale's gaze, but Gabriel soon found his composure as a cheesy smile returned.

"Well, _we _can't do it, Aziraphale," Gabriel said, shrugging his shoulders as if it were obvious. "And by design we're incapable of taking our own lives, as you should know."

Aziraphale nodded in confirmation. "Of course," he said, his voice straining. He blinked to fight back the hot tears burning at the edge of his vision. "But … but there must be another way. Please don't have dear Umbriel do it."

Gabriel shot a glance in Uriel's direction. The apathetic angel of his interest only lifted her chin.

"Umbriel's purpose is to fulfill the will of God and the angels," Uriel said flatly. "She does not feel remorse from following her duty."

"Is that so?" Aziraphale asked, his voice breaking. "Is that her answer, when you ask her how she feels?"

Uriel's dark eyes bore into Aziraphale. She kept her attention on him as she lifted a hand to the breast pocket of her grey jacket. An object gleamed between her fingers – having no need for the lamp above it in order to glow. Aziraphale squinted his eyes, studying what appeared to be a golden fountain pen. Uriel grasped the pen with utmost care and held it out to her side.

"Take it," she said.

Without hesitation, Umbriel reached up to delicately clutch the pen.

The quiver to his lip revealed Aziraphale had realized what the pen really was. A tear slipped down his cheek, the angel roughly wiping it away with his sleeve and a shake of his head.

"Please, don't ask her to," Aziraphale pleaded. He looked beseechingly between the Archangels. "I'll go with you back to Heaven and await my judgement there. You can do whatever you like, just … just please, don't put this on her conscious."

"You're done making demands, Aziraphale," Gabriel said gravely. "If you want us to honor your request, this is how things are going to be."

Whatever invisible force was helping Aziraphale stand up straight seemed to dissipate as he deflated like a punctured balloon.

"Step forward," Uriel said.

Umbriel dutifully left the Archangel's side. Her long dress poured about her ankles; the Guardian could have been mistaken for floating on air if it weren't for the soft footsteps scarcely cutting through the dampness around them. She came to an almost mechanical stop before Aziraphale, eyes still lowered.

Aziraphale turned his head, seemingly trying to find something, _anything,_ to focus on other than the person standing before him. He closed his eyes with a sharp inhale before reluctantly looking down.

Umbriel's gaze was still lowered, and she stared ahead as if nothing in the world existed outside the pearl-colored buttons on Aziraphale's waistcoat. The higher angel considered asking her to raise her eyes, but he decided against it as he realized it would only make the aftermath of what she was about to do that much more difficult.

Aziraphale reached out to gently tuck the hair partially obscuring Umbriel's face behind her ears. Soft hands cupped the Guardian's cheeks, pale blue eyes dancing over her features as if trying to memorize every facet.

"It's alright … it's alright," Aziraphale said tenderly. It was difficult to tell whether the words were of comfort more for the Guardian or for the Principality himself.

"You are forgiven," Aziraphale whispered, his voice breaking with emotion. "I will always, _always, _forgive you, my dear. Never forget that."

The pale hands clutching the fountain pen began to shake. Aziraphale reached down to steady them with a comforting touch.

Umbriel's mouth began to move, but no sound escaped her lips. Aziraphale wondered if whatever was acting to affect the sounds surrounding them was also influencing her – the veins in Umbriel's neck straining as she fought to speak.

"I …" Umbriel croaked, her voice trailing in and out. "M … Azir–"

"Don't hurt yourself, my dear," Aziraphale said, gingerly cupping her hands in his own. "I can tell what you're feeling, remember? I know."

Aziraphale leaned into her, placing a kiss on her forehead. He lingered there for a moment before pulling away. A warm, genuine smile touched his face as he regarded her.

"The angel!" Umbriel suddenly shouted, her voice cracking through the air like a whip. The Archangels flinched in surprise from the sudden outburst. Aziraphale's expression grew perplexed as he studied Umbriel's face.

"I have to … I have to stab the angel?" Umbriel asked, the last of her statement only just audible as her voice shook. Aziraphale tightly closed his eyes, unable to take in the heartbreaking sight.

Gabriel let out a puff of air. He regarded his companions, his gaze lingering on Uriel. His fellow Archangel had an uncharacteristically thoughtful expression as she stared ahead. Gabriel frowned at her perceived hesitation.

"Yes," Gabriel snapped, violet eyes shifting away. "Yes, just do it."

The sound of a mechanical click was immediately followed by a strained gasp. Aziraphale's eyes bulged, his mouth hanging open as he stared at his companion. He remained standing, however, as the Guardian suddenly collapsed before him.

"Umbriel?" Aziraphale said. The higher angel was unscathed, although a still smoldering sear mark was running up the length of his coat from his left wrist up to the elbow.

"Umbriel?!" Aziraphale cried, falling to his knees. He grasped the Guardian by the shoulders, attempting to lift her into a sitting position. The attempt was failing, however, as the angel struggled with handling her dead weight.

"No! No! NO!" Aziraphale shouted in anguish. Between trying to lift her up, he hastily attempted to brush away the long hair that had fallen over her face. "Umbriel! UMBRIEL, PLEASE!"

The Archangels could sense something small and feeble like a match fighting to stay lit against a raging snowstorm. As expected, the match didn't last very long before being snuffed out. None of them moved a muscle as they watched Aziraphale's demeanor quickly crumble when the Principality's hindered senses caught up to their own. The lower angel let out a cry of mourning that only a creature not of this world could express.

Gabriel was finally able to find his voice.

"Fuck."

"Goddamnit, Gabriel!" Uriel shouted, her face twisting in anger as she rounded on him. "I knew something was wrong! I knew it the second Umbriel dared to speak out! You blasted idiot, look what you've done!"

Gabriel's lips flapped soundlessly for a moment before the Archangel regained his composure. "How was I supposed to know?! She's not supposed to be able to do something like that! I thought Guardians just followed orders!"

"They _do _follow orders!" Uriel countered, fire behind her eyes. "But when you're asking them to go through with the rather delicate task of sticking someone with a sword, it doesn't hurt to be specific!"

"The sword," Sandalphon said. The Archangels snapped their heads to regard the lifeless Guardian lying across Aziraphale's lap. Her left hand was still wrapped tightly around a blackened and burnt object protruding from her torso. The object turned to dust, the ashes floating through the night air as the angels watched in disbelief.

"Was it … was it supposed to _do that?" _Michael asked, looking between her companions. The answer to her inquiry came from an unexpected source.

"The sword wasn't meant to be used against angels," Aziraphale said, his voice hardly more than a whisper. The group watched as the angel slowly rocked Umbriel's limp form back and forth, holding her head against his shoulder. A strained whimper escaped his lips before he spoke again.

"I believe … I think it couldn't exist on this realm any longer after being used for something so against its original purpose," he said. His grip on Umbriel's form tightened as he lowered his head, burying it into the crook of her neck.

The Archangels let the statement sink in as Aziraphale's heaving sobs filled the silence. Gabriel's eyes suddenly seemed to come into focus. An air of suspicion grew over him as he regarded the grief-stricken angel.

"You knew," the Archangel said, accusation seeping into his voice. "You knew that the sword would disappear if we used it against you."

Aziraphale didn't answer. His face was buried in Umbriel's hair, his shoulders shaking as he gripped the Guardian with white knuckles.

"So that was your real goal, huh?" Gabriel continued. "To take away our opportunity to ever kill the demon Crowley by destroying the sword." A genuine laugh at his own misfortune escaped his lips. "You're a lot smarter than I gave you credit for, Aziraphale, I'll give you that."

Aziraphale slowly raised his head. He peered at Gabriel through swollen eyes.

"I couldn't trust you," Aziraphale said faintly. "I couldn't trust you to keep your word that you wouldn't go after him. My plan was to ensure that you couldn't, but …"

His eyes returned to Umbriel's pale face. "Not … not like this. I didn't want it like this."

"The … the sword," Sandalphon repeated, as if it were the only topic he dared to speak of. "They're not going to be pleased about it."

"I know! I know! Just shut up!" Gabriel snapped, his sleeked back hair falling askew. He closed his eyes and held out his palms, taking a deep breath to regain his composure. Violet eyes slowly opened to stare at Aziraphale; unlike the Principality, there didn't seem to be an issue with the Archangel appearing vindictive.

The lower angel wasn't aware of the scorn, however. Aziraphale's eyes were closed, his forehead touching Umbriel's as he whispered something in Hebrew. Psalm 23, from the snippets the other angels were able to pick out.

Uriel's dark eyes wandered over Umbriel. Her focus centered on the charred skin peeling back from the Guardian's fingers, her lips pursing.

"Let's go," Uriel said sharply. The gravel beneath her heel crunched as she turned and stalked away. The Archangels Michael and Sandalphon looked to Gabriel for confirmation.

"Come, there's nothing of importance left here," Gabriel said, turning his back to Aziraphale. The remaining Archangels followed, pursuing Uriel down the winding trail without offering a second glance.

Four blinding beams of light suddenly illuminated the footpath and surrounding forest, shadows twisting and bending over the setting as the light shone brighter and brighter before fading away just as quickly as it had appeared. In the blink of an eye, the only movement left on the lonely path was an angel struggling to get through his prayer between cries of anguish.


	6. Chapter 6

Aziraphale paced, tugging at his sleeve. It was a bad habit he had gotten into lately (tugging at his sleeve, not pacing; Aziraphale had paced throughout most of the 17th century), and he quickly corrected himself before causing any more of the fabric from his camel fur jacket to come undone. Instead, he clutched his hands behind his back, looking out into the trees and the open fields of tall grass below. It was a pleasant day, shadows drifting over the countryside as puffy clouds coasted lazily above. But the angel was, sadly, not in the right mood to fully enjoy it.

Turning his back to the scene, Aziraphale regarded the trunk of the large oak tree. A fluttering sound floated through the air alongside a cool breeze, and the angel could clearly picture Umbriel sitting on the other side, her eyes wandering over _'The Importance of Being Earnest' _as she turned the page. Aziraphale's expression brightened at the mental image, his eyes travelling to the base of the tree as another picture began to form. This time it was Crowley – the demon lying on his back with his nose in a book. Quite literally, since he was using it as a means to block out the sunlight; hands folded behind his head and one leg propped up on the other in slumber. The smile turned bittersweet as Aziraphale's imagery faded.

There was no telling where Crowley had gone off to, in all honesty. When the angel had stopped by his friend's apartment almost a week prior, he had picked up lingering traces of the demon that were so faint, he had no way of knowing how long ago anyone had last been in the residence.

The fact that the apartment was also in shambles upon the angel's arrival did little to help his nerves. Aziraphale had used a miracle to clean up the wine, get the stains out of the couch cushions, and reform the broken glasses about the kitchen. He was sure Crowley would appreciate the gesture ...

If he ever returned.

As it turned out, having those sorts of thoughts had been a little too much for the angel to bear. This resulted in a quick distraction via tweaks to the apartment's décor to help lift his spirits. The demon hadn't seen it yet, but the changes to the living room were child's play compared to the upstairs bathroom. Rest assured that a fit over lace curtains, bath salts, and hand towels with kittens embroidered on them was slated for the near future.

In the meantime, the fretful angel could only hope Crowley was still on the planet (or at least somewhere with decent cell reception).

The messages on Crowley's answering tape – and even more on his cellular phone – were the best the angel could do. Being himself, Aziraphale had also considered leaving a note, but second guessed the notion as he recalled his friend's general distaste for reading.

Despite being a member of 'the occult' – as Crowley would put it – Aziraphale had no better means of communication to rely on. Demons were able to do a fancy little trick where they could force their voices through various electronic devices, but getting a firm grip on technology in general for the angel was … touchy. Aziraphale had been rather impressed with the telephone when it came about, and just when he was starting to get a firm grip on that … space shuttles became a thing. To be quite frank: the angel had no confidence operating anything more complex than a hand-held calculator (and even then, he normally defaulted to the abacus he'd owned since the 5th century), much less trying to commit a miracle using any sort of device without prior consultation.

'_Ooh, look at the old fuddy-duddy deciding to finally join the rest of us in the 21__st __century,' _Crowley would say, grinning slyly. _'Maybe in another hundred years or so you'll be ready to see what the whole 'personal computation device' thing is all about, yeah?'_

Aziraphale scoffed. "Even in my fantasies, he's laughing at my expense," he said to himself.

The thought that his internal dialogue may be the only way he'll ever have a conversation with his old friend again resulted in a feeling like a weighted blanket had been draped over his shoulders. Aziraphale tried to push away the notion that the demon may have gotten his messages; but simply wouldn't heed his call.

"Nonsense, nonsense," the angel muttered.

The footpath caused by Aziraphale's pacing stretched as he moved to keep under the shade in the shifting midday sun. Around the time his calves were beginning to ache and the balls of his feet were starting to burn in protest, movement near the far line of trees caught the angel's eye. Gaping in amazement, Aziraphale's face lit up as a familiar profile slowly ambled toward him. The object of his attention appeared to be in no rush, hands in pockets as a slightly hunched figure slithered between tall grass.

"Oh Crowley, thank goodness," Aziraphale said, relieved. "I was getting worried."

There was no answer, Crowley's face an emotionless mask as he crested the hill. Dark lenses roved over just about everything _but _the angel as the demon stopped at Aziraphale's side and took in the scenery.

"It took a while to decipher your stupid bloody message," Crowley finally said. "You could've just said to meet at the place where we had the picnic."

Aziraphale nodded in understanding, although he was well aware that Crowley was being less than truthful about his difficulty interpreting the cryptic communication:

'_Meet me where the angel danced; the moonlight shining bright.'_

"I didn't want to risk it," Aziraphale said. "The Archangels were aware that you had gone into hiding, and I was fretful they may have eyes and ears on you, even now."

"They don't," Crowley said. Aziraphale frowned, waiting for an elaboration that didn't come. Eventually, the angel cleared his throat before plowing on.

"Yes, well, I just wanted to fill you in on recent circumstances. There was a … _meeting, _of sorts, between the Archangels and myself. And, well, there are particular things that transpired that you should be made aware of."

"I know," Crowley cut in. Aziraphale did a double take, regarding the demon in disbelief.

"'_You know?'_ How could you possibly know?"

Crowley finally turned his head toward Aziraphale.

"Banana plant."

"I beg your pardon?" Aziraphale said, certain he had misheard.

Crowley remained silent. Aziraphale peered at him, not sure what to make of the unfamiliar secrecy. He was also concerned over Crowley's mental condition, but his curiosity over what wisdom one could possibly garner from a member of the Musaceae family prodded him on.

"How much do you know, exactly?" the angel asked. Crowley exhaled with a dismissive shrug.

"I know the sword was destroyed," he said. He looked over the distance, clenching his jaw. His companion watched the symbol of a snake writhe at his temple, unsure if it was the underlying muscle or some otherworldly power that caused the small creature to squirm. The tiny snake grew still as Crowley opened his mouth. He second guessed himself, closing it, but changed his mind again as the words tumbled out.

"I know Umbriel's gone."

A pained expression touched Aziraphale's features. He reached out to give Crowley's shoulder a reassuring pat.

"She was never going to do it, you know – hurt you," Aziraphale said, doing his best to sound comforting. "She spoke out of anger then, not sincerity. I wanted to be sure you knew that beforehand so you won't do anything foolish."

Crowley nodded absently. "At least my eyes can finally get a rest from regarding that minging creature."

"Ah," Aziraphale said, looking about. "_Might _want to be careful about what you say, mon chou."

"She was like a wannabe groupie for an 80s hair band," Crowley continued, ignoring the warning. His tone, however, was much kinder than the insult should warrant, prompting the angel to waver between feeling touched and insulted on Umbriel's behalf.

Crowley's brow furrowed. "This place still reeks like her, though. Smells like one of those shops in the mall that sells scratch-n-sniff stickers and pens with the asinine puff balls at the end."

Aziraphale cleared his throat, his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline.

"Delightful as always, Mr. Crowley."

Crowley whipped about. A figure sporting a baggy red top and a large, velvet green hair bow stepped around the tree. If apple orchards had the same type of gaudy and obnoxious spokespersons as used car dealerships, this person would be the most memorable of the bunch (pun intended).

Aziraphale's previous imaginings hadn't been entirely wrong, but they did fall short, somewhat. The book which was tucked into the back pocket of the woman's jeans, for example, had less mistaken identity and romantic musings as Oscar Wilde's work, but more pumpkin pasties and owls delivering mail. She had swapped out the books when the higher angel wasn't looking, and an inner city London newspaper stand now sported a starkly out of place copy of _'The Importance of Being Earnest.'_

A smug smile pulled back glossed lips as the woman puffed out her chest.

"I rather like my style, you know," Umbriel said, reaching up to adjust the bow holding her hair back. "And I think you do, too, Mr. Crowley; what else would you have to complain about if I changed it?"

The demon closed the distance between them in an incomprehensible blur. Crowley reached out … and socked Umbriel with a right hook that would make the likes of his favorite action heroes proud. Well, perhaps if it hadn't been a literal_ angel _who he had just struck across the jaw.

Umbriel precariously wobbled to the side, throwing out her arms to keep her balance. Spots of color (which in this case she _couldn't_ say she appreciated) floated before her eyes, and her ears were filled with a ringing sound that was almost drowned out by Aziraphale's exclamation of shock. Even that, however, was overridden by Crowley's hoarse voice.

"There're two reasons you deserve that, and you know exactly what they are."

Before Umbriel could reply, her face was buried in black silk.

Umbriel went stiff as a board. The shock of being held by a demon threw her for far more of a loop than the punch ever could. By the time Umbriel's frazzled brain caught up to what was happening, and that the _polite _response would be to actually hug him back, Crowley was already shoving her away with as much force as he had used to grapple her in the first place. This time Umbriel lost the battle against gravity and landed on her backside with a dramatic thud.

"Ow," Umbriel said. She was referring to … well … a lot of things.

Crowley was staring at her as he backed away with as much apprehension as if _she _had been the one to attack _him. _It was true, in a way, but her assault could be closer labeled to being chemical warfare if you judged by the stinging sensation in Crowley's eyes.

It was going to be rather difficult for anyone to follow up Crowley's display with anything nearly as impressive. Luckily, Aziraphale's inherent nature saved anyone the trouble of trying.

"I wish I could attest for what became of your manners," Aziraphale said, looking the demon up and down, "but your form of greeting is rather taking the biscuit." He gave Crowley a final dismissive look before motioning for Umbriel to approach. "Come here, dear."

The Guardian pushed herself to her feet. The respectively less violent member of the group clicked his tongue in disapproval. It was unclear if the gesture was aimed at the sway to the Guardian's step, the dirt clinging to her jeans, the growing mark on her face, or all of the above.

"Let me take a look at that jaw … Crowley, you brute. I'll have to miracle that away to avoid leaving a scar."

Umbriel shot the demon a sideways glance as she mumbled something too soft for Crowley to hear.

"Nonsense, he's forgiven you for all that," Aziraphale said, as if he were the final authority on the matter.

Aziraphale ran his finger along the purple mark, the bruise disappearing beneath his touch. As he did so, Crowley noticed that the left sleeve of Aziraphale's jacket had a long, scorched-looking tear running up the inside seam.

"What the hell happened to you?" Crowley asked.

Umbriel shifted, her eyes flitting to Crowley before looking at his shoes. "Oh, uh –"

"Getting to that," Crowley interrupted, holding up a finger. He pointed at Aziraphale.

"Ain't that your jacket from Sicily? The camel one, yeah? You right botched it up."

Aziraphale appeared dumfounded. "You want to know about _my jacket?!" _the angel asked, looking between the object in question and Crowley in disbelief. "Out of _all_ things, it's _the jacket?!"_

"S'very unusual," Crowley said simply.

Aziraphale balked. First there was the nonsense about a banana plant, followed by throwing punches out of the blue, and now this. He had to seriously consider if Crowley had sustained a blow to the head since their last meeting at the bookshop.

"As impressive of a garment as this is – was – no, no, still is – _unusual _doesn't mean you should be putting the well-being of a piece of clothing in precedence over the well-being of a friend!"

The angel seemed to have missed the point entirely that Crowley's inquiry was based off of him being so intimately aware of Aziraphale's habits and preferences, that this was, in fact, just that.

"Well, I know she's fine, obviously," Crowley said, gesturing to Umbriel. "Feels right solid to me."

This was not the correct answer, considering Aziraphale started to sputter like an overboiling pot of spaghetti.

"Alright, alright," Crowley said, lifting his palms in submission. "Putting a pin in the jacket thing for later."

Crowley smiled at the statement. "Heh, that turned out to be sort of a joke, dinnit?"

It was, but based on the expressions of his companions, not a good one.

"Tough crowd," Crowley said. He felt a sudden moment of solidarity in terms of how Aziraphale must feel towards Crowley's less-than-stellar reactions regarding his slight-of-hand.

"I'm all ears, angel," Crowley said, bowing slightly with a grandiose wave. He was more than ready to have all the attention taken off himself, at any rate.

Aziraphale's nod in acknowledgement was accentuated by raised brows and a stern look. The angel's expression softened as he gathered his thoughts.

"Well, I suppose I should start at the beginning," Aziraphale said. He put out his hands, gesturing them up and down as he spoke as if trying to stuff an invisible drawer.

"After you left, it was all rather …_ disconcerting. _I tried calling you, of course – those messages you never returned, by and by – which was also quite distressing, mind you. And on top of all that, the two of you had made a horrendous mess of some of the books, so those had to be properly inspected for damages and reorganized right away.

"And ah – yes, after that it came time for Umbriel and I to collect our thoughts, as it were, and one can't possibly do so without getting into the right mindset. Now at _this _time, I had considered going for something a bit stronger than tea, but I had never been much of a coffee drinker, you know – gives me the wobbles, mostly. Umbriel had found old beans in the cupboard from some time back; didn't you, my dear? Oh but those had long since expired, so brewing a cup would require going to the corner market, which I _certainly _wasn't in the mood for at the moment. Umbriel – bless her soul – offered to pick some up on my bequest, but I dismissed the notion since I absolutely didn't want her leaving the shop without protection. We had a bit of a disagreement over that, but it wa–"

"You're waffling, angel," Crowley interrupted.

"Waffling?" Aziraphale said. "Umbriel and I did get breakfast a little later on, but it was bagels, I believe, not waffles."

"You're prattling on," Crowley said, bluntly. "We may not be capable of dying of old age, but by golly you're going to get us close if you keep goin' on like that."

Aziraphale looked a bit put out. Crowley winced, immediately feeling guilty.

"You should tell Mr. Crowley about your performance," Umbriel said softly. "That part was very exciting, wasn't it?"

"Oh!" Aziraphale said, his face lighting up at the prospect. Crowley's features relaxed. He regarded Umbriel for a moment, the object of his attention pointedly shifting her gaze to look elsewhere.

"Yes, yes, indeed I shall," Aziraphale said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "This part will most certainly be a good bit, I assure you!"

·◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊·

"The sword wasn't meant to be used against angels," Aziraphale sniveled. He kneeled in the hard grit of the footpath, tears dripping from his cheeks as his eyes drifted over the Archangels looking down at him in varying states of shock.

The glow of the streetlamps cast harsh shadows over Umbriel's unresponsive features as the angel slowly rocked her limp form back and forth. A pained whine escaped his lips before speaking again.

"I believe … I think it couldn't exist on this realm any longer after being used for something so against its original purpose," Aziraphale murmured. His grip on Umbriel tightened as he lowered his head.

Aziraphale buried his face in thick hair, his shoulders shaking as the laughter that had slowly been bubbling up from his gut finally made an appearance.

The hand attached to someone who by every right should have been dead moved just enough to give his stomach a painful pinch. A startled yelp was luckily mistaken for cries of sorrow by those witnessing the display.

"You knew," came Gabriel's harsh accusation. "You knew that the sword would disappear if we used it against you."

Aziraphale couldn't bear to lift his head, still having trouble wiping the smile from his face as he giggled.

"So that was your real goal, huh? To take away our opportunity to ever kill the demon Crowley by destroying the sword," Gabriel's voice continued. The Archangel let out a strained laugh. "You're a lot smarter than I gave you credit for, Aziraphale, I'll give you that."

"Even more so than you think," Aziraphale whispered. The smile disappeared, and Aziraphale lifted his head as his expression was once again one of pure sorrow.

"I couldn't trust you …" Aziraphale said faintly.

The Principality put on a rather dramatic display accented with snivels, gasps, and the improvisation of a particular psalm in Hebrew that left him rather smug of his ingenuity. A certain playwright Aziraphale had once been acquainted with from the 17th century would have given his performance an awkward clearing of the throat followed by an indifferent shrug.

"… they're not going to be pleased about it," Sandalphon's voice muttered.

"I know! I know! Just shut up!"

If the Archangel's dampening miracle hadn't been in effect, they might have caught Aziraphale's Hebrew momentarily diverting from a certain psalm to weave in a statement about Gabriel being a particularity indecent part of a horse. However, in Aziraphale's defense, he was under the impression that this was actually a rather tame insult translating to 'dimwitted aardvark.' One wouldn't need a lot of guesses to speculate who had originally taught him the slight.

Going off script again warranted another pinch to the gut. The angel responded by putting his forehead to Umbriel's and apologizing for getting a bit carried away.

"Let's go," Uriel said, her voice on edge.

There was the sound of crunching gravel which amplified as the other angel's followed.

"Come, there's nothing of importance left here," Gabriel's voice snapped.

Not a single Archangel bothered to look back with a pang of remorse. This was lucky for Aziraphale, who had broken character to stick his tongue out at the retreating forms. He squinted his eyes against the flash of light, and blinked several times to regain his vision after the angels' departure. The night sounds came flooding back in like a wave, and with a start, he noticed that it hadn't just been the sounds being blocked. He could now sense entities in the shadows of far less than angelic nature.

"Death must be so beautiful!" Aziraphale wailed, theatrically lifting a hand to his forehead. "To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow …"

At this point the entities lurking nearby were quite certain that they had all they needed. There was more than likely going to be a memo on the whole ordeal, anyway, and they scattered to the wind before they, too, would join the Guardian in the sweet embrace of death (theirs being less of the 'stabbing' variety, and more of the 'brought about by sheer boredom' type).

"To forget time, to forget life, to be at peace," Aziraphale continued, getting rather caught up in the moment. He lowered his hand, noting that his captive audience seemed to have mysteriously vanished before he could even get to the good part.

_Well, best to be safe, _the angel thought.

"You can help me!" Aziraphale howled, hoping his voice would carry to reach a few stragglers. "You can open for me the portals of death's house, for love is always with you, and love is stronger than death is!"

There was a wave of veneration from Umbriel that was the closest she could get to applauding without moving a muscle.

"Thank you, my dear," Aziraphale whispered.

Aziraphale worked to get a good hold of Umbriel's limp form. After a few instances of her arm slipping away, then getting her head to rest against his chest without lolling about, a strained sound escaped the angel's lips and he lifted her up to begin his walk down the empty path.

"Oh, I will instruct my sorrows to be proud; for grief is proud, and doth makes his–"

Aziraphale's grip on Umbriel faltered. He caught her legs before they fell out of his grasp, but a painful jolt shot through his back as he did so.

"Oh, sweet Heaven," Aziraphale wheezed.

"Are you sure you can carry me?" a soft, and somewhat concerned, voice asked.

"Hush!" Aziraphale hissed, looking about. He continued to walk, his breath growing more labored.

"For– for grief is proud and doth makes his owner … his owner stoop," the angel continued. His lips pulled back over his teeth as a burning sensation that had far more to do with idleness than hellfire ran through his biceps.

"I … I'm going to put you down now," Aziraphale whispered, ducking into a cluster of bushes beside the trail. He made it a few paces into the wooded area before getting to one knee and gingerly placing Umbriel among the grass and dried leaves. He took care not to break the physical contact that ensured the minor miracle hiding her presence wouldn't dissipate.

"Are you alright?" Umbriel asked, one lid cracking open.

Aziraphale answered the question by falling onto his rear with an 'oof.' Pearl buttons raised up and down, his chest heaving as he looked about the rocks and twisted branches. The angel's heart was pounding from both the level of physical effort that was _far_ above what he was accustomed to, along with the adrenaline from his previous performance still coursing through his veins.

"Yes, ah, yes, perfectly fine," the angel panted. "But stay still for just a moment, please."

Aziraphale tightly closed his eyes, dipping his head. His senses stretched to see if he could pick up any more unusual entities, and detected no corporal forms within at least three quarters of a kilometer from their location. Whatever the Archangels' had done must have pushed everything in the area out other than the few supernatural entities attempting to eavesdrop. Aziraphale could only hope that whatever – and possibly _whomever __– _had been around from the natural realm during that time would reappear somewhere pleasant.

"Ah, all clear," Aziraphale said, rapidly blinking. He pulled back his hand, and Umbriel's bright aura immediately popped back into existence. The higher angel couldn't so much see the aura as he could feel it, which was an odd sensation to describe since he was aware that he was _feeling _a myriad of colors. Sometime later in the future, Aziraphale would inquire if his own aura did the same; hoping for the answer to be a pattern of crisscrossed bands that he was particularly fond of. Umbriel would be forced to burst his bubble when she admitted that, no, his aura wasn't tartan.

Aziraphale's gaze lowered to Umbriel's abdomen and the burnt, tattered hole of peeling white linen around red flesh.

"Oh, oh my!" Aziraphale exclaimed. He put his hands over the lesser angel's stomach, and the seared, oozing skin immediately faded back to normal. "I'm so sorry, my dear! Oh no, let me see your poor hand. This must be horribly painful, I'm so sorry."

"It's alright," Umbriel said, wincing as she lifted the appendage. "Better than going 'poof,' right?"

Umbriel averted her gaze, feeling nauseous at the sight of scorched flesh and what she was sure was bone sticking out around the first knuckle.

"Oh dear. I believe we may have over-egged the pudding, as it were," Aziraphale said, sheepishly. "This is why I don't trust computers; that blogsite said we should use far too many sticks for that sparkler contraption."

Aziraphale waved his hands up and down the length of Umbriel's arm. In seconds, the flesh was as good as new. A relieved sound escaped Umbriel's lips.

"You did very well, staying so still among all that," Aziraphale continued, his expression brightening at the sight of Umbriel's relaxed features. "Very good job! I'm quite chuffed."

Umbriel pushed herself into a sitting position, more than a fair share of leaves and sticks clinging to her as she did so. "You should be the one getting praise, I think," she said. "You could be in theater."

"Oh, me? No," Aziraphale said, waving away the compliment. The self-satisfied grin on his face, however, more than betrayed his true feelings on the subject.

"You almost had me there," Umbriel said, her smile growing bittersweet. "When you said that you would forgive me. I could barely get out my lines, then."

Aziraphale smiled tenderly. He reached out to cup Umbriel's face. "All of that was sincere, my dear. You will always be forgiven, in my book."

Aziraphale finished the statement with a pinch to Umbriel's cheek before pulling away. The Guardian regarded the higher angel with a loving expression, but something out of place had caught her eye. Umbriel's gaze drifted downward and a soft gasp escaped her lips.

"Oh! Your coat!"

"Oh," Aziraphale said, following Umbriel's gaze. "OH!"

He lifted up the sleeve, regarding the new addition of blackened and tattered fabric with a distressed expression. He ran his finger along the material, dismayed when some of both the coat and underlying jacket fell away at his touch.

"You can fix it, right?" Umbriel asked.

Aziraphale didn't answer right away. His fingers slid over the unscathed portion of his sleeve as if memories over the past decades had been woven into each thread.

Surprisingly, his expression brightened.

"I most certainly can, if I wished," Aziraphale said. "But I'll always know it was there. So, I may as well leave it that way – it will be like a badge of honor, I believe."

The look on Umbriel's face seemed to convey that she found the statement dubious. Aziraphale chuckled.

"I _do_ have another thing to be feeling right chuffed about, after all," Aziraphale said. He reached his fingers into his sleeve, taking care not to further rip the cloth. A metallic gleam reflected the moonlight as he gingerly pulled the golden pen from the garment.

"It's a good thing I was brushing up on my slight-of-hand, wasn't it?" the angel asked, a playful twinkle to his blue eyes.

"Yes, but we were still nearly done-in by a firecracker during the process," Umbriel said, fighting to hold back laughter.

"Ah, well, we only caught fire just a tad," Aziraphale countered. His smile grew thoughtful as he tilted the pen to-and-fro. The object balanced on his fingertips, but there was a weight to it that had nothing to do with its physical properties.

It was his sword, without question. The angel may not have properly had it in his possession for quite some time, but he could never forget the righteous aura and familiar thrum between his fingers let off by the holy weapon.

It had been complete codswallop – as he liked to put it – about the sword disappearing after piercing an angel. However, he had a feeling there was no one else other than the Almighty herself who would be able to dispute the fact. Aziraphale also had the distinct feeling the Archangels would never gather up the courage to ask.

"It's frightening, that thing," Umbriel said, pulling her knees to her chest. "Just holding it made me feel … formidable. Like I could do _anything._ The second it touched my fingers, I even had the urge to take on the Archangels right then and there."

"That would be the Justice part about it," Aziraphale explained. He gave the pen a final look over before stuffing the item into a pocket inside his jacket. When his hand reemerged, his gave his breast a reassuring pat. "The sword is meant to be used to enforce the will of the Just, so when you held it, the object was rightly a bit _miffed_ over the idea of being used to murder an innocent angel."

"But not so much the Archangels?"

"Well, that's a bit of a problem with Justice," Aziraphale said, his smile turning sheepish. "The definition seems to shift depending on who you ask."

The two angels shared a forced chuckle. As their laughter faded, Aziraphale let out a long sigh and looked about. His heart rate had gone back to a normal level, and although sleep wasn't a necessity, he did feel the need for a warm blanket, a warmer cup of cocoa, and a good book.

"Mr. Aziraphale?"

Aziraphale pulled himself out of his daydream, lids fluttering. The dejected tone in Umbriel's voice caused him to consider her in concern.

"Are you alright, my dear? Did I miss a spot miracling away the burns?"

Umbriel shook her head. She began to pull sticks and twigs out of her hair more as an action to keep her hands busy than because they caused any bother.

"If Mr. Crowley comes back …"

The look that flashed over Aziraphale's face caused the Guardian to make a quick correction.

"_When _Mr. Crowley comes back," Umbriel said. "I just … I didn't want it to come out of the blue when I … that I'll be leaving."

This was a subject Aziraphale had been hoping to avoid that night. Or, at the very least, until they had returned to the bookshop, where he could have made the weak claim that he couldn't hear her over the sound of shaving chocolate for his cocoa. Aziraphale cleared his throat, nervously drumming his fingers along his knees.

"Umbriel," the angel said, tenderly. "Whether Crowley will forgive you or not is … ah, well, that is … that is a question." His expression fell further from the disappointing effect his sentiment appeared to have on the lesser angel. He awkwardly cleared his throat again.

"But it can't be ruled out entirely that he won't," he continued. "I, well, I've known Crowley for some time now." He gazed into the shadows over Umbriel's shoulder as if they were doing something interesting. "Yes, for quite some time. And I think you've also known him long enough to see that there is good in him."

Umbriel slowly nodded in agreement. Her eyes dropped in guilt.

"And there is some bad in you."

Umbriel's attention snapped back to Aziraphale. Despite the statement, it was spoken with no malice. The higher angel shot her a strained smile.

"Not to fret," Aziraphale said, kindly. "I think having some balance helps to widen one's perspective."

This did little to stop Umbriel from looking aghast.

"But I did something _terrible," _Umbriel said, voice breaking. "I was … I was going to _do it, _Mr. Aziraphale. If they had given me the sword–"

"You were doing it to keep me safe, my dear," Aziraphale said, attempting to shut down the line of thought. "You were under the impression that the Archangels would leave me to my own devices if you only – erm – _'took out' _Crowley, as it were. It wasn't an _ideal _notion, but there was still some nobility behind it."

"But it wasn't just for you!" Umbriel countered, eyes wild. Aziraphale quickly reached for her hand, hoping to imbue enough positive emotions to keep the Guardian from spiraling into the level of … _whatever _that had been during the picnic. Such alien feelings were far more than he could handle, and without Crowley there to even things out, Aziraphale wanted to avoid the touchy subject at all costs.

"I was afraid for myself," Umbriel said, looking away in shame. "I was afraid of what would happen to me. I couldn't stand the idea of being cast out. But then … but then Mr. Crowley made it worse."

Aziraphale let out a sigh. "I apologize on his behalf, my dear," he said, wearily. "Those awful things Crowley said to you–"

"I was thinking how it wouldn't be so bad if I were to fall."

Confusion, anger, sorrow, and disgrace radiated from the Guardian in a dizzying array. Aziraphale had to fight to keep his grip. The level of bewilderment he was giving off wasn't helping, but he was too shocked to hide it.

"Demons can love," Umbriel said. Her eyes drifted over Aziraphale's face, pleading for an answer that he wasn't qualified to give.

"Mr. Crowley can't be the only one," Umbriel said, imploringly. "I reasoned that if I went against the Archangels and fell, then I could probably still feel love, too, couldn't I? It would be alright, if that were the case. I could still help the Almighty's children like I always do. I would just … when it comes to the Almighty, I …"

The bottomless pit was opening up again. Aziraphale shied away from the feeling, watching helplessly as a veil was thrown over Umbriel's eyes. His fingers loosened, and he pulled back his hand, relieved when the only emotions tumbling through his mind were his own.

Aziraphale was out of his depth – feeling like a diver lost at the bottom of the ocean. If he wasn't careful, he, too, could get turned around and never find his way back to the surface. What he was facing couldn't be solved with a smile, a cup of tea, or a reassuring pat on the back. Aziraphale wasn't capable of stopping time, nor could he tell Umbriel that what she was experiencing wasn't all that bad compared to other things.

Aziraphale was unequipped.

Aziraphale was unprepared.

Aziraphale was …

Soft.

'_You've faced down Satan, you know,' _a voice said in his mind, sounding resoundingly like an old friend. _'Is this really where you're going to come up short, angel?'_

"No," Aziraphale whispered. Umbriel seemed to have forgotten he was there, her gaze unmoving from a spot near her knee.

The higher angel's brow knit in a steadfast expression.

"No, I most certainly will not."

Aziraphale threw his arms around Umbriel, pulling her close. He fell into the depths, gritting his teeth against the cold waves of fear and despair that pulled him under.

"I am done with being soft, do you hear?!" Aziraphale declared. "I'm going to get hard for you, Umbriel, starting right now!"

There was a pause.

After this pause, many things happened in rapid succession. Because he was certain he was missing something, but wasn't quite sure _what, _this was a difficult part of the story for Aziraphale to recount. He was even allowed to have some additional time to dwell on the matter, since it took Crowley approximately four and a half minutes to catch his breath and regain a semblance of composure before Aziraphale could continue (there were still a few false starts, since Crowley would break into giggles just as Aziraphale was about to pick up from where he left off).

The simplest explanation for the series of events is as follows:

The part of Umbriel's brain that was still processing outside stimuli felt the embrace, heard the words, and made an assumption based on having the memory of _every _human-made form of entertainment, both written and recorded, where a similar statement was professed with passionate energy.

The pit of despair within Umbriel's mind closed with such a sudden snap, Aziraphale was given emotional whiplash – also leaving him in a rather stunned state.

While this was happening, Umbriel was pulling forth second-hand information of what one who considers themselves to be of the _prudish _variety would do in such a situation. This resulted in her pushing Aziraphale away while simultaneously raising her right hand.

As the hand flew through the air, most of Umbriel's normally functioning mental capacities returned … and she had a thought. It was a thought that said:

'_You ARE aware of who just said that, aren't you?'_

At this point, Umbriel was feeling quite ashamed of the misunderstanding. This led to her shouting a rather heartfelt apology while simultaneously karate-chopping Aziraphale in the windpipe.

An object in motion … well, you know the rest.

A strained whoosh like an old tractor engine spurring to life escaped Aziraphale. This sound was quickly followed by the higher angel doing what he was ingrained to do whenever someone gave him an apology under any circumstance.

"Ahheeooo …"

The labored squeak that escaped the angel as he fell on his side was the closest he could manage to saying, 'I forgive you,' given his current capacities.

(Side Note: At this point during the reiteration – sometime after the demon had composed himself – Crowley remarked:

"S'pose I should be grateful all I got was slapped by a banana plant."

This was a turn of phrase Aziraphale had previously been unaware of. He would pick it up in the future as a reference for when one befalls a misfortune that was tame compared to someone else's. His usage of the phrase would never fail to baffle every person in earshot)

"No, dear … I'm fine, I'm fine," Aziraphale insisted between weak coughs. The blow had been more surprising, than anything, but Umbriel was blubbering over him as if she had chopped his head clean from his shoulders.

"I didn't mean to startle you so," Aziraphale said apologetically. "I suppose I got a bit carried away – forgive me."

If you've ever had the experience of rescuing a baby bunny, spending weeks nursing it back to health, releasing the creature with a bit of fanfare, then watching in horror as an eagle swiftly scoops up an afternoon snack – then you may be familiar with the sound which escaped Umbriel's lips.

"I … I don't … I've never …" Umbriel stuttered. "Why would anyone _do _that? I've never struck someone before! That was horrible! I was just … I just did what I _thought _I was supposed to do … and my hand hurts again! This is horrible! _I'm _horrible! I _attacked _you! I can't even begin to apologize enough! Mr. Aziraphale, I'm so sorry!"

Umbriel's stammering died away as another sound took precedence.

Aziraphale was laughing.

Well, it was a cross between a laugh and a wheeze, and seemed somewhat painful, but it was still a laugh nonetheless. Blue eyes rimmed with tears eventually opened and regarded Umbriel in glee.

"Really, my dear, do you think you could have killed someone?"

Umbriel's frantic energy drained away. She suddenly looked very uncertain.

Aziraphale regarded the lesser angel with a pride that made the object of his attention feel entirely undeserving of the sentiment.

"What I was trying to convey before, you know," Aziraphale said, softly. "Is that this whole time, I thought I couldn't relate to how you were feeling because I had never felt the same way. But … ah, that isn't entirely true. The truth is – I was too frightened to ever admit it."

The corner of Aziraphale's mouth twitched.

"The idea of falling … it's a terribly worrisome concept, isn't it? I believe the … the isolation is something I simply couldn't bear. The thought itself is so appalling … and then of course I'm reminded of the fact that my dearest friend has had to live with that feeling since the beginning of time."

A heartbreaking expression crossed the angel's face.

"He would blame himself, I think, if something of that nature were to happen to me. That notion doesn't hurt as much as the idea of my link to the Almighty being taken away, but it does pain me something awful."

Aziraphale inhaled sharply, shaking his head to rid himself of the thought. He cleared his throat before reaching out to Umbriel.

"You're not alone, my dear, is what I'm trying to say," he said, a firm resolve growing to his voice. "Even if … even if anything were to happen to either one of us, I will always hold you dear to my heart; there is nothing you could do to change that. No matter what either of us may be ... what we might become ... no, it wouldn't matter. Not one bit, I assure you."

Umbriel bit her lip in an attempt to keep herself from blubbering like a baby. The fear wasn't gone, not entirely. It probably never would be, no matter how much she or anyone else willed it. But now there was a steadfast certainty:

She would never, _ever, _be truly alone.

If the captain of the ship were to toss her overboard, there would be a passenger who would throw her a lifeline to ensure she wouldn't drown. In fact, that passenger would probably jump ship himself if he had an inclination that it would save her. That level of certainty was frightening, in a way. It was frightening, because Umbriel knew without a doubt that it would go both ways. Umbriel never imagined she could feel anything so strongly outside of her duty toward the Almighty's children. She had a definition of this feeling, and thought very much so that she had felt it before, but now she was fairly certain that hadn't been so. 

This was kinship. It was love, and friendship, and loyalty, all rolled into one. Aziraphale had her back, as she had his. He was more her family now than anything outside the Almighty had ever been before.

Well, as long as she didn't do something to make Aziraphale disavow her. She had a feeling that despite his claim, certain insults toward wine, Oscar Wilde, and tartan could do just that. She rather liked two out of three of those things, luckily, so she didn't have much to be concerned about.

An appreciative smile grew on her face.

"I don't think someone like you has to worry about falling, Mr. Aziraphale."

"Ah, well," Aziraphale said, flashing her a coy grin. "I'm far from innocent, myself, if that hasn't already been made apparent."

Umbriel giggled. "You _did _call the Archangel Gabriel a horse's penis," she said, looking at him shyly like a child toeing the line to see what they could get away with.

"_Language," _Aziraphale warned. "And I most unquestionably did nothing of the sort! Really, my dear; I don't know where you get these notions."

Umbriel covered her mouth with her hand as she let out a snort. The higher angel rolled his eyes, getting to his feet while letting out more strained groans than he would have later liked to admit (which he didn't, if you were wondering).

Lips pulled back in a wince, and Aziraphale placed a hand on his lower back. His expression softened as divine intervention was grossly misused to heal a pulled muscle.

"Come along," Aziraphale said, tugging Umbriel's hand. He helped her to her feet, strengthening their grip when the lesser angel made to pull away. He offered her a comforting smile that was returned with a grateful expression. The pair slowly made their way hand-in-hand out of the foliage and back to the trail.

"Would you surmise the sushi establishment down the block is still open at this hour?" Aziraphale asked.

"It's 3:00am, Mr. Aziraphale."

"I was just _wondering," _Aziraphale said in defense. Umbriel shot him an endearing look.

"There's a 24-hour diner not too far off," she said. "Edmond is waiting tables, and he'll serve us the freshly-baked pastries if we get him talking about how his son is doing in kindergarten."

"Oh!" Aziraphale said, eyes alight. "I _have _been wanting to try that 'cronut' thing you mentioned the other day."

Umbriel nodded. "We'll have to go back to the shop and change, first, I suspect. Unless we want the Almighty's children to think we're trying to start a new fashion trend, that is."

It took Aziraphale a moment to realize Umbriel was attempting a joke. He chuckled, regarding the gaping burn marks to their clothes. 

"It wouldn't be the oddest thing I've seen," the angel said, his eyes growing clouded as a memory resurfaced. "Humans do like to come up with the most inexplicable things to wear. At the very least, I'm grateful they moved away from the powdered wigs, because you wouldn't _believe _how difficult it was to keep those in decent condition …"

·◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊×◊·

"Did you really have to add in that last bit about cronuts and the wigs?" Crowley asked. He lounged at the foot of the oak tree, watching Aziraphale with a bored expression.

"It adds _flavor, _Crowley," Aziraphale countered. His companion tilted his head with an unamused groan. Aziraphale huffed, turning his back to the tree.

Umbriel had retreated some distance down the hill while Aziraphale relived the tale. She sat with knees pulled up to her chest as she regarded the field of swaying grass. Despite Crowley's earlier display of affection (if one could call it that), Umbriel still seemed tentative on being in his proximity.

Aziraphale turned to peer at Crowley out of the corner of his eye. The demon's head was slightly lowered, and at first glance he appeared preoccupied with a stalk of clover as his fingers danced over the delicate leaves. But Aziraphale knew better.

Crowley had tried to hide it, and probably would have succeeded fooling just about anyone into thinking he hadn't glanced in Umbriel's direction a single time during the tale. But the angel had spent a very, very long time getting a sense for where the demon was really looking behind dark spectacles. There seemed to be some concern from Crowley that Umbriel was really there; warranting occasional checks to ensure her appearance wasn't some sort of trick. Not being the doting type by any means, it was one of the most endearing things Aziraphale had seen his old friend do. It was at this point, when the angel caught another quick glance, he finally lost the fight to keep the sappy smile off his face.

"What the hell are you grinning at?" Crowley snapped.

Aziraphale chuckled, turning to face him fully. "Nothing really, mon chou. I suppose I'm just happy to have you back."

"I never left," Crowley said, his tone dismissive. Aziraphale's expression grew thoughtful before nodding.

"Of course not," he agreed. "I can't recall whatever gave me the thought."

"I can," Crowley said. "But it's probably 'bout time for you to stop believing me when I say I'm gonna bugger off somewhere."

"Well, _you did, _I would assume," Aziraphale replied. "Just not somewhere as far away as Alpha Centauri, would be my supposition."

"Traffic was horrendous," Crowley said, placing his palms beneath his head as he laid back. He propped one leg up on the other, his foot swiveling about. Aziraphale recognized the behavior, waiting patiently while Crowley collected his thoughts.

"You should've waited 'till I got back," Crowley finally said. "That plan of yours was risky – lot of ways it could've gone wrong."

"Contingencies were in place, I assure you," Aziraphale said with a wiggle of his brow. Crowley frowned before speaking.

"Like what?"

Aziraphale loudly cleared his throat, breaking their gaze. "Oh, you know. Plans B through … ah, T or something … yes. There were most certainly lots of backups. I was 'on it like a car bonnet,' as it were."

Crowley silently mouthed the phrase before his jaw dropped in disbelief.

"You didn't have shit!" he exclaimed. "What the hell got into you?!"

"But it was a _good _plan!" Aziraphale said, pleading his own defense. "And it worked, as you can see."

Crowley returned to a sitting position, waving his arms as if gesturing to a mountain of unseen issues.

"What if they called your bluff, huh?" Crowley asked. "What if they agreed not to have the feather duster stick you, and take you back through the pearly gates?"

"Oh," Aziraphale said, amused. "They most certainly wouldn't do that. Your performance with the hellfire caused _quite _the scandal, I'm sure; they wouldn't risk a repeat of the situation."

"Or what if they had brought another Guardian?" Crowley said, gesturing toward Umbriel. "If they figured there was an issue with that one, they could've just fetched another."

"Well, quite so," Aziraphale agreed. Despite the concurrence, a playful nature hung about the angel.

"But I know Gabriel."

Aziraphale paused, letting the statement sink in.

"They had no reason to doubt Umbriel was still loyal," he continued. "Or, at least that she would follow orders. And even though finding another Guardian wouldn't take long, it would still take _time."_

Crowley sat in contemplation, wracking his brain over why the angel was looking at him so expectantly.

"Gabriel can be very impatient, you see," Aziraphale said with a wink. He watched in glee as Crowley finally nodded in understanding.

"'_Shut your stupid face and die already,'_" Crowley quoted in the strained, annoyed tone of the Archangel who had first snapped the declaration.

"Precisely," Aziraphale said, puffing his chest. It was notable that the only difference between the angel and a preening peacock was the color. Crowley finally consented the issue with a groan and defeated wave.

"Alright, alright, so you're _clever; _big whoop."

"Inform me of something I haven't previously been made aware of," Aziraphale said, putting his own spin on a phrase he'd picked up from Umbriel.

"And it wasn't all me, you know," the angel added. "Umbriel had the idea to make the switch with the sword after watching me practice my magic tricks. Because _someone …"_

Aziraphale regarded Crowley from the corner of his eye.

"… has the ability to recognize genuine talent."

"Makes sense she'd say that," Crowley agreed. "The feather duster is the biggest liar I know, after all."

Despite being aware the remark had been made partially in jest, an unpleasant feeling squirmed in Aziraphale's gut in a way that reminded him of the one time he went to a less-than-reputable seeming sushi restaurant. He made to nervously fiddle with the cuff of his sleeve, stopping himself midway. Instead he clasped his hands behind his back, bobbing his head as he stared at tawny leather oxfords.

"Spit it out, angel," Crowley drawled. He leaned his head in his hand as Aziraphale looked up to regard him as if he had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Watching you fidget like a preteen waiting for a bloke to ask her to dance is downright painful."

Aziraphale pursed his lips at the comparison. Crowley only raised a brow, waiting.

A large puff of air escaped the angel's nostrils. "Ah, yes, well," Aziraphale fussed, eyes darting about. "I, um, I believe … I think I owe you an apology."

Crowley's posture straitened. An intrigued frown drew across his face.

"Doth my ears deceive me?" Crowley asked, tilting his head to the side as if his hearing was more attuned to the canine variety than the serpentine. "Say that again, since I'm not sure if I quite heard you right."

Aziraphale's eyes narrowed, but he did as Crowley requested.

"I owe you an apology, mon chou," he said, as if the words were being drug out. "I didn't … I didn't handle things well, between you and Umbriel. I shouldn't have been so quick to dismiss your concerns."

"Damn right," Crowley said. The demon looked away, tapping at his knee. He made an irritated sound before looking back to the angel.

"I goaded her," Crowley admitted. "I shouldn't've done that."

"You were scared," Aziraphale said, picking up the subtle slump to Crowley's shoulders.

"So were you," Crowley countered. He let out a soft grunt as he rose to his feet. "But you at least kept most your wits about you; I went straight for the jugular."

It now seemed Crowley was doing everything he could _not _to look in the Guardian's direction. The sight made Aziraphale's heart sink.

"It was dreadful what you did, Crowley – I'm not going to sugarcoat it," Aziraphale said, fidgeting with the ring on his pinky finger. It was pointed on one end, which made the action a little painful, but it at least kept his hands away from the frayed suit. "You need to keep your composure in such delicate situations," he continued, looking down the hill at the last remark. "I don't believe lashing out in anger has ever helped anyone."

"Oh yeah? Fuck you."

Aziraphale's eyes snapped back to Crowley, his jaw dropping.

Crowley met his gaze with a wicked grin. Aziraphale scoffed, but it was quickly followed by an amused expression.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, I know," Crowley said, tilting his head back on his shoulders. "Self-improvement is a monumental task for a demon, mind you. I'll probably need a few more millennia before I stop feeling good in any way 'bout making people suffer."

"I'm more than certain you'll get there sooner than that," Aziraphale said. His smile grew bittersweet. "I apologize for not saying anything."

"Wah?" Crowley said, meeting his gaze. "'Bout what?"

"When Umbriel said those things," Aziraphale said, his lip twitching. "About you being evil. About you not being able to love. I shouldn't have let that slide without reprimand."

Crowley waved dismissively. "You were just tryna keep the ship afloat. It sunk anyway – in a damn near spectacular fashion, I might add – but you didn't have time to dwell on it."

Crowley stuffed his hands in his pockets and shrugged. "And I'm a demon, so that shit ain't far off."

Aziraphale shook his head. "If the look on your face when Umbriel stepped out from behind this very tree is any indication," the angel said. "Then I do believe you are more than capable of love, mon chou."

The demon crossed the distance between them in two swift strides. He roughly grasped Aziraphale's ear, tugging it downward as the angel yelped.

"If you _ever _insinuate that I feel anything more than an idle tolerance for the feather duster," the demon growled, "you're gonna have a striking familiarity with Van Gogh."

Aziraphale's pained expression fell away as he frowned in thought. "Is that so? I don't believe I'm the type to start a courtship with a prostitute who will later drown herself in the Scheldt."

"You're insufferable," Crowley snapped, yanking back his hand. Aziraphale grinned as he rubbed his ear.

"I apologize," Aziraphale said. "That was rather cheeky. I'm not sure what came over me – must be something I picked up from a bad influence."

Crowley snarled and turned his back on the angel's impish expression. After a few steps, he came to a stop.

"It really doesn't worry you?" Crowley asked. He didn't turn around, unsure if he could continue while looking Aziraphale in the eye.

"Worry me?" Aziraphale asked, not following this new line of thought.

"What you said to Umbriel about falling … even knowing that you might, you know … hanging 'round the likes of me and all … it doesn't bother you?"

"Ah," Aziraphale said, the sound escaping him as he contemplated if his answer should contain too much, or too little, of the truth.

"Well, sometimes," Aziraphale admitted, finding a middle ground. "But it's out of my hands, as it were. I made my decision years ago, and I can only wait and see what the Almighty deems fit to do with me. In the meantime, I'll just be a good person. And I … well, honestly believe that you help me along with that endeavor. Having wiles to thwart, and all that, you know."

A chuckle accented the last statement. There was a sound like Crowley was going to make a retort, but it died on his lips. After a pause, the demon went in a very different direction.

"Missed you, angel."

"Naturally, you did," Aziraphale said, a chipper tone returning as he adjusted his bow tie. "I simply can't imagine what you would do without me around to keep you on your toes."

"Ah, right," Crowley drawled, looking over his shoulder. "Dunno how I'd spend my days if I didn't have something riveting like feeding the ducks and watching you fill out a crossword puzzle to look forward to."

"Precisely," Aziraphale said, beaming. Crowley returned the expression with a devious smile.

"You're almost there, angel."

Aziraphale's brow furrowed. The expression grew more puzzled as Crowley chuckled.

"But not quite," Crowley said, looking out over the hill. "The feather duster called you human, but you're still picking things up. One of these days, you'll realize that there's something more you want from me … but not just yet."

The angel was utterly lost. Crowley was already the most important thing in the world to him, so he couldn't imagine what _more _could possibly be.

"Well," Aziraphale said, uncertainly. "To start, it would be nice if you were a little more pleasant to the baristas at the coffee shop by the park. They've begun to give us _that look _whenever we stop in."

"Just doing their bloody_ job _doesn't mean they deserve a tip!" Crowley snapped, the topic enough of a sore spot to throw his train of thought right off the rails.

"Oh, but there's so many buttons on those machines," Aziraphale countered. "It looks terribly complicated."

"Oh now, don't you start," Crowley warned.

This went on for ten minutes.

It also wasn't the first – nor would it be the last – time the angel and demon would have this conversation. Despite some tutting and gesticulating, both parties were unadmittingly enjoying themselves to the fullest extent.

"… s'communism."

"Closer to socialism, actually," Aziraphale countered.

"See, I dunno 'bout that," Crowley said, waving lazily. "You're proposing everyone in the retail sector should be paid the same, mind. That's ah– shit."

Aziraphale tried to decipher the meaning behind Crowley's expression, but the demon had suddenly grown pensive as he looked ahead. Aziraphale turned to follow his gaze, his eyes landing on an impossible to miss splash of red and green.

"I gotta talk to her," Crowley said, slowly, "don't I?"

Aziraphale turned back to find Crowley regarding him with a cocked eyebrow.

"You can do what you like," Aziraphale said, lifting his hands in surrender. "It's none of my business whatsoever."

"You're the nosiest goddamned creature on this planet," Crowley said, as if stating a fact. "Anything that isn't your business, you want it to be."

"I like to think that it's due to me being 'inquisitive,' not 'nosy,'" Aziraphale corrected, taking slight offense. Crowley made a disbelieving sound as he strolled past the angel.

The silence that drifted over the valley as the steady sound of voices fell away caused Umbriel to turn and look up the hill. She kept her eyes on the approaching demon for a moment before returning her gaze to the waving fields of gold and green. She didn't speak as Crowley came to a stop at her side.

"This bloody suit is ruined."

Crowley took a seat, muttering to himself as he swatted away the taller blades of grass. Umbriel dug long, red nails into her arms. She sheepishly regarded the demon out of the corner of her eye before taking a quick inhale of breath.

"Just shut it," Crowley snapped. Umbriel regarded him with a wide-eyed expression. She dropped her head, tears forming.

"I've probably thought about killing you more often than you've thought about killing me, if it means anything," Crowley said. His companion slowly looked up to meet his gaze.

"And they all weren't just passing fantasies, either," the demon continued. "When you first showed up, I had some serious strategies in the works concerning the best way to go about asphyxiating you with one of those repugnant hair ties."

Crowley mimed plucking something from her hair before driving his arm downward.

"Right down the windpipe – nice and smooth."

Glossed lips curled into a repulsed expression. Crowley shrugged, looking away.

"If anything, I would say you were probably more conflicted over the idea than I was," the demon said. He turned back to regard her with a raised brow. "And I don't think you'd have the balls to go through with it, feather duster; both literally and figuratively."

Umbriel nodded in agreement. She hastily wiped the dewy corners of her eyes as she sniffled.

"Here," Crowley said, reaching into his breast pocket. He produced a pocket square, black as night, with the initials 'A.J.C.' stitched in red thread in one corner. Umbriel regarded it as if it were an alien entity.

"These things always come with the suit and I never use 'em," Crowley said. He tossed the cloth onto her lap as Umbriel continued to stare at it with a stupefied expression.

"I figured you go through about fifty or so of the angel's bloody things a week, so I might as well come prepared."

Umbriel tentatively reached out for the cloth. She lifted it up, running manicured nails over the black silk.

"But if you thou–"

Umbriel's voice drifted away. Crowley hadn't used a demonic miracle to produce the handkerchief, which meant that he had gone through the trouble of adding the accessory. He had done so despite previously thinking she was dead. Umbriel decided not to press the matter, knowing that there were some questions better left unanswered.

"It's much nicer than the kind Mr. Aziraphale has," Umbriel said instead. "I'd feel a little worse ruining it."

"Don't let the angel hear you say that," Crowley said, glancing behind him. "You know how worked up he gets about his clothes being from the _'South of France' _this, and _'Barcelona craftsmen' _that."

Umbriel laughed rather unexpectedly. She regarded the handkerchief with a watery smile before finally bringing it up to dab her eyes.

"I'll be expecting that back dry cleaned," Crowley added. Umbriel chuckled, although her cheery expression waned slightly when it became clear that the statement wasn't in jest.

Crowley watched her with a blank expression as she wiped her face. His demeanor softened as she gingerly folded the handkerchief in her lap.

"So you're free as a bird now, yeah?" Crowley asked.

"Yes," Umbriel affirmed. She lifted her gaze, taking in the fields and the minuscule farm houses that could be seen in the far distance.

"It sounds like that thing worked, then," Crowley said. "The whole 'ordering you to not follow orders' bit, as convoluted as that is."

"It's not really all that complicated," Umbriel said, turning her head. "It's just … a bit of a loophole, I suppose."

"One that I would assume you didn't tell the upper brass about?" he asked, raising a brow. Umbriel quickly shook her head. Crowley nodded, looking away.

"That, and the fact that they now believe you went 'poof,' gives you a lot of options for your prospective future, don't it?"

"Not really," Umbriel said. Crowley regarded her with interest.

"There's only one thing I can do, now," Umbriel continued. "Well, two, technically, if you consider my original job of looking after the Almighty's children."

Umbriel took a deep breath of the clean air. Crowley almost envied her for it, knowing that the same action of taking a deep whiff of air a little too pure of pollutants would cause him to choke.

"Mr. Aziraphale and I have a theory that I might be able to do the same thing he can," Umbriel said. This declaration lead Crowley to wonder if the lesser angel had bothered to learn over 50 colors in the "taupe" category.

"Guardians don't normally interact much," Umbriel explained, "we sort of just move around to fill in the gaps of where we're needed. So, as far as I know, we never really try to order each other around. But that doesn't mean we _can't."_

A thoughtful look fell over Crowley's face. He tilted his head to the side in contemplation. "So, you'll be searching for other angels, then setting them free."

"Yes and no," Umbriel said. "I just want to be able to give them the choice. If they choose to follow the upper angels, then I have no right to tell them they can't; but at the very least, they should be allowed to choose."

"You know …" Crowley said. He reached up, sliding the sunglasses off his face. The sentiment behind the yellow eyes was like night and day compared to the previous time the Guardian had seen them clearly.

"The last time anybody started talking like that," Crowley said, solemnly, "they ended up with eyes like these."

Umbriel grinned, lifting her chin as she spoke.

"They're lovely, I think."

Crowley cleared his throat, turning away as the sunglasses made themselves reacquainted with the bridge of his nose. The pair didn't speak for a moment as Crowley looked off into nothing. Umbriel regarded him warmly, their hair bouncing lightly as a slight breeze drifted through the valley.

"I'll probably be leaving, soon," Umbriel said. Crowley didn't look at her then, but his head tilted slightly in her direction.

"We're going to need a lot of recruits for Earth's Army," Umbriel continued, her voice growing firm.

"Earth's army?" Crowley asked, studying her as if she had started speaking in an unknown language.

"That's what Mr. Aziraphale named it," Umbriel replied matter-of-factly. "I rather liked, 'The Humanity Defense Force,' since that's really the main goal. But Mr. Aziraphale insisted that there's the possibility that we'll be called into committing acts that an army would be asked to do, and so he doesn't want to 'sugarcoat' it."

A pang shot through Crowley's heart. The demon shook his head. "Earth's Army is fine and all that," he said. "But the angel's smart. He'll figure out a way to save 'em all without bloodshed, I'm sure."

Umbriel's heart warmed at the sentiment. She gave Crowley an appreciative glance before continuing.

"The Archangels will learn that I'm still around soon enough, so I have to get in as much work as I can. Hopefully I'll be able to reach a few other Guardians during that time."

"You do that, feather duster," Crowley said. His expression grew firm. "But the second you get the notion that the Archangels are on to you, you call me and I'll come join you."

Umbriel frowned, wrinkling her brow. "_Join _me? Why?"

"You're a weakling, for one," Crowley stated. "You could barely stay on your feet from that right hook."

Umbriel scoffed at the indignation. Her companion smiled at the familiarity of the gesture, comparing it to someone else he knew well.

"Two," the demon said, holding up two fingers, "unlike the angel, I'm bored out of my bloody mind with nothing to keep me busy. Going around and planting some radical ideas into the heads of lesser demons every now and then wouldn't be a huge waste of my time, as I see it."

The line between Umbriel's brows faded. She nodded in agreement.

"No, probably not a waste," she said.

Crowley glanced behind him before resuming. "Just don't tell the angel, because I'm sure he'll throw a tantrum at the idea of having no one around to get pissed with and listen to him drone on about the history of tea cakes."

"Oh, no, he won't take it well at all," Umbriel agreed. "The two of you are like peas in a pod."

The demon winced. "Start saying cutesy things like the angel," Crowley stated, "and I'll retract my offer of keeping you from being obliterated."

Umbriel chuckled. "No need. I do appreciate the offer, but I think you can stick to rooting up demons around the greater London area. Mr. Aziraphale is going to let me borrow his sword, which should be more than enough for me to keep a handle on things on my own."

"You're joking."

Crowley whipped his head around to regard Aziraphale. The angel was leaning against the large oak tree, a dreamy look on his face as spots of sunlight from the leaves danced over him. Crowley seemed to have caught him in the middle of regarding a preening wood thrush high in the oak's branches.

"Can that dolt seriously not keep a hold of that bloody thing for _five minutes?" _Crowley spat. He shook his head in disbelief as he turned back to Umbriel.

"I don't think he would be very comfortable using it, to tell the truth," Umbriel said.

"And _you _would be?" Crowley said, dubious. Umbriel's smile turned queasy.

"I … I'll figure it out," she squeaked.

"That thing isn't for roasting marshmallows, feather duster," Crowley said. He fought the urge to groan when he spotted Umbriel's eyes going slightly out of focus as she contemplated the idea.

"You need to be prepared to use it," Crowley said, drawing her attention. "_Really _use it, mind. If the guys from my old head office track you down, they'd be willing to kill you for it, no questions asked."

A green hue touched Umbriel's cheeks.

"Ah, see, look at this," Crowley said, gesturing at Umbriel as if she were a particularly distasteful lawn ornament. "_This _couldn't even use the sword as a bug zapper. You heading out alone is just asking for trouble."

The hands in Umbriel's lap balled into fists. The Guardian gazed behind her for a moment before speaking with a steadfast canter.

"I'm going to take care of myself; I can't let you leave London again."

Crowley laughed. "You my parole officer now? I gotta say, I've been missing my last one since he burned up in the Bentley."

Umbriel didn't seem amused. "He missed you," she said, somberly. "He missed you terribly."

"It was _four bloody days," _Crowley said, waving dismissively. "And he had you to keep him company; couldn't've been all that bad."

Umbriel glanced at Aziraphale again. The fire behind her eyes cooled down to a smolder.

"We weren't sure if you were coming back," Umbriel said, her tone laced with the echo of an unpleasant memory. She frowned as Crowley pointed at her.

"This one's a freebie, since you're new," Crowley said, cocking an eyebrow.

"I always come back."

Crowley withdrew his hand, watching Umbriel thoughtfully. "You better also make that a habit, for the angel's sake," he added.

A weak smile graced Umbriel's features. She nodded adamantly.

A devilish grin adorned Crowley's face. He had an idea to keep tabs on the Guardian for Aziraphale's peace of mind (only his, mind you. Not Crowley's in the slightest. Not at all). He figured he could coerce a certain banana plant into doing him a favor, if he could reach her. He'd figure it out – the angel didn't call him a 'wily serpent' for nothing.

The look went unnoticed by Umbriel, who was busy watching Aziraphale with an endearing smile. "Mr. Aziraphale was in a bit of a _mood _during the time between you storming off and now, you know," she said. "He's doing much better."

"I didn't _storm, _I _sauntered," _Crowley corrected, dryly. "And the angel doesn't get into 'moods.'"

"He does so," Umbriel implored. "He's always so meticulous, but he became very scattered over the past few days. He'd make tea when he meant to make cocoa, cocoa when he meant to make tea, and a four-course steak dinner when he went back to the kitchen to fetch biscuits."

"Wah?" Crowley said. "How?"

"You know, I want to say he used a miracle, but all of the dirty dishes were there," Umbriel said, her brow furrowed. "He wasn't even gone that long; I'm still trying to unravel that one."

A smile crept up Crowley's face. "Was it at least good?"

"Everything tasted like bubblegum," Umbriel said, leaning back on her hands. "_Looked _like regular food, though, even down to the potatoes and brussel sprouts – the texture wasn't even off. Mr. Aziraphale ate his entire portion without a word, and when I asked him about it later, he didn't think a thing was out of place."

"Hopeless," Crowley said with a chuckle.

"Sometimes," Umbriel agreed. "That seems to be what happens when the one he's all 'googly-eyed' over is giving him the cold shoulder."

Crowley's eyes snapped to meet hers. A sly smile spread over the Guardian's face as she traced the letter 'L' in the air with her finger.

"Try sticking to subjects you know something about, feather duster," Crowley warned. The teasing smile fell from Umbriel's face. She lowered her hand, shoulders drooping.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Crowley," Umbriel said. "When I told you that you couldn't lo–"

"Would you lot stop bringing that up?!" Crowley snapped. Umbriel rapidly blinked at the sudden outburst.

The demon made a dismissive sound as he rose to his feet. He brushed the grass off his dark trousers before offering Umbriel his hand.

"Look, about what ..." Crowley trailed off, uncomfortable. "Just ... I'm not wasting any breath on it, so feel for yourself."

Umbriel stared at his hand in apprehension. She was like a child studying a stovetop after having her first run-in with a hot pan handle. And like a hot pan handle, her last emotional link with the demon had left a deep burn.

"I … I don't …" Umbriel whispered.

"Just take my bloody hand," Crowley said. The declaration caused Umbriel to look up in surprise. Although the demon didn't show it, there had been a hint of something melancholy in the statement.

Umbriel reached out. Crowley pulled her to her feet, but instead of standing on the hill, Umbriel was suddenly plunged into darkness. She gasped, trying to pull away from the hand holding fast like a vice.

"Quit squirming and gimme a moment," Crowley's voice said. "Gotta get all the details right."

Although Umbriel could still feel Crowley's hand, what was presumably the grass beneath her feet, and the gentle breeze from before, a pitch-black void was all she could see when looking in her companion's direction (or any direction, for that matter). She tried to stay composed despite her heart pounding in her ears. Repeating the mantra _'it isn't real' _over and over within her mind seemed to help.

"You know," Crowley's voice drawled. "I could actually take you here, if I really wanted to. But I'm a lazy bastard and this is much simpler."

Umbriel was about to ask him what he meant, when the world suddenly exploded in color. White, blue, and green lights danced in the distance; glowing behind towering clouds of gold and pink. It was like the essence of a sunset and been captured and sculpted into rolling hills and high peaks that created an ethereal mountain range the likes of which Umbriel could never imagine. Her feet rose from whatever invisible surface they had previously been planted on, and the angel's skin tingled like she was floating through a thick fog. The churning feeling in her stomach from the weightlessness was distressing, but not enough to distract her from taking in what she could only describe as something … indescribable.

"Is this …" Umbriel said, breathless. Her eyes roamed over a column of bronze haze that appeared like a majestic archway stretching miles above, the top only just visible as she craned her neck.

"Is this what Heaven looks like?"

Crowley's voice let out an insulted sound.

"They wish," he said. Umbriel flinched as something popped up beside her, and Crowley was suddenly quite visible.

"They call it Carina, now," Crowley said, waving his free hand about. "Spent a long time working on this one. The humans got some pictures of it, but the nebula's something else up close, innit?"

A look of awe fell over Umbriel's face. Crowley was able to sense the emotion, his lips curling in a prideful smirk.

"You made this?" Umbriel asked, breathless.

"Does a cat have an ass?" Crowley responded, fingers flitting to-and-fro like a conductor directing an orchestra. Distant lights of pink and clouds of blue popped into existence with each point and flick.

"It's amazing you can do this," Umbriel said, following his gaze. "Your monochromatic color pallet has always led me to believe that you were generally uncreative."

Crowley's face twisted as if he smelled something repugnant. _"Rude,"_ he spat.

"I've made a personal vow to no longer lie to you, Mr. Crowley," Umbriel said absently, craning her head about.

"There's still a level of tact you need to lace in when talking to people," Crowley said, watching her with a displeased expression. "You're right piss poor at that, considering how much experience you've got."

"I said that I was no longer going to lie to you," Umbriel said, meeting his gaze. "That doesn't include anything about the delivery of said assertions."

Crowley looked unamused.

"You're the worst, feather duster."

"Coming from a demon," Umbriel replied. "I'm going to take that as a compliment."

Crowley grunted. Yellow light flashed within one of the distant peaks of golden-orange haze, causing the cloud of gas to swirl and expand in delicate tendrils. Umbriel's eyes followed the twirling colors, taking care to commit every last thing to memory. Her own memories never used to take much precedence over human affairs, but this was one she wanted to hold on to for as long as she could.

"This is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," Umbriel whispered.

Crowley shrugged.

"Can't be," the demon said, dismissive. "You've seen the Bentley."

Umbriel snorted in surprise. A spark of an innocent, wondrous joy traveled through the link. The sensation was partially painful, reminding Crowley of a time long past when he was crafting the very nebula being projected into the Guardian's mind. Even so, he tucked the feeling away as a reminder that his hope of once again being capable of experiencing such emotions had not yet faded.

"Thank you for forgiving me, Mr. Crowley," Umbriel said.

"That's not what this is," Crowley snapped, the words coming out harsher than intended. He cleared his throat, adjusting his tone.

"The angel was right, as always," he continued. "When he said I'd already forgiven you for all that ... ah ... this is ... erm, the other way 'round. To make up for earlier. With uh ... the, you know ..."

"I do know," Umbriel said, saving him the trouble. "And I know you didn't mean it. We both did things we didn't mean."

"Yeah, yeah," Crowley agreed. He sniffed, tilting his head. "We even?"

"Yes," Umbriel said, beaming.

The nebula ebbed away like paint thinner melting an image from a canvas. As the oranges, golds, and pinks dissolved, the very Earth-like blue sky, white clouds, and waving fields of green grass came into focus.

What was left between the link was a feeling like smoldering coals warming cold hands. It wasn't the high-spirited, jolly sense of affection that buzzed from Mr. Aziraphale – yet something about it was more satisfying, in a way. There was a fragility that implied for it to be handled with care, and an air of significance that suggested that not just anyone was allowed to even make the attempt to do so.

When Crowley made to pull away, the Guardian tightened her grip. She smiled at him gratefully, and for a moment the demon took in the bright, rejuvenating feeling enveloping his hand.

"Bugger off already," Crowley grumbled, swinging his arm. Umbriel loosened her grip, shooting him a playful wink as she turned. Crowley rolled back his head, and an irritated sound escaped his lips.

"_Angels."_

"Yes?" Aziraphale said, having begun his descent down the hill when a wave from Umbriel caught his attention.

"Not you," Crowley snapped. "Well, yes _you, _but not … ugh."

The demon waved his arms in frustration as he began walk. Aziraphale stared at the back of Crowley's head in utter confusion.

"Probably best to head back," Umbriel said, catching the other angel's attention. "He gets a bit shirty after spending too much time out in the sun, doesn't he?"

"Hair tie," Crowley said, looking back over his shoulder. He mimed grabbing something out of the air and shoving it forward. "Windpipe."

"What in the world is he going on about?" Aziraphale asked, looking between the two. Umbriel shrugged, lifting her eyebrows. She began to stroll, keeping a slower pace than normal to stay abreast with the fellow angel.

"Either way, I do agree that it's time to head back," Aziraphale said, regarding the position of the sun. "Crowley can give us a lift, since I'm not sure if the bus will be coming back since I sort of … _compelled _the driver to make a slight detour outside his usual route in the first place."

"He might still be in the area, actually," Umbriel stated. "His childhood home is out here, and Mark is a curious enough person that he would throw a bit of caution to the wind and stop by the old house. His family moved away when he was sixteen, but his best friend Henry inherited the house next door after his father passed. I'm sure the two of them have a lot of catching up to do."

"Speaking of taking a break, you know, I'm rather peckish," Aziraphale said, characteristically taking any opportunity to twist something into an excuse to grab a bite to eat.

"Do you know if there's a quaint little place out here, my dear? Sometimes you can find the most scrumptious hidden gems in the country. We can all certainly have a good chinwag over a light lunch before heading home. Do you have a preference for anything, Crowley?"

"As long there's wine, I don't give two shits," the demon replied, not bothering to look back.

"Well, that settles it," Aziraphale said, blue eyes sparkling as he regarded the Guardian at his side.

"Lead the way."

**«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»**

In the beginning, there had been an angel, a demon, a couple people, a flaming sword, and an apple. Fast forward a bit – you'll find an angel, a demon, a few more people, a flaming sword, and an apple. Although, the sword and the apple look a little different, this time around.

Like before, the apple still has seeds of knowledge to plant, and branches to grow out into the world. The apple also has an angel looking out for it, to varying degrees of success, depending on who you ask. And in a move similar to sometime prior, the angel saw it fit to endow his flaming sword to another. There are those that would argue that this might be a bit irresponsible, but a good counterargument would be to think of how many bad things have ever come about from an apple wielding a sword. Not many, as one would imagine.

But the angel's influence and the flaming sword weren't the only things the apple had been provided. There had also been a demon, who encouraged the apple to look beyond how things were, learn to adapt, and – most importantly – to ask questions. And when the apple was finally plucked from its stem, it was ready to do just that. It may not have been a piece of burning weaponry, but the demon had armed the apple with something that could easily be just as formidable. Only time could tell.

But at this moment, three ethereal beings (or occult, however you liked to see it) spent the afternoon chatting over bottles of aged Chardonnay paired with a duck confit which thankfully met a certain angel's expectations. It was toward the end of this meal that said angel raised a glass, offering to make a toast.

It was unclear if it was hope or carbonation bubbling up in the angel's chest, but either way it gave his following announcement the desired optimistic effect. The declaration was parroted by his companions – one raising their glass with enough enthusiasm to nearly spill its contents, while the other showed less outward exuberance, but still sported a sly smile.

And so the moment defining the very fate of the world was set around an unassuming table garnished with a vase of daisies and overlooking the English countryside. It was accented by the sound of laughter and tinkling glass, which may have seemed a bit blasé considering what's at stake, but looking on the bright side of the situation seemed like a good default option to the (almost) three angels.

"To Earth's Army!" a ball of sunshine, smiles, and tartan declared.

"To Earth's Army!" his companions repeated, the three glasses coming together with a clink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the story! Thank you for reading ^_^


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